The Businessman's Tie (The Power to Please, Book 1) (11 page)

“I watched a woman get beaten with a rod,” I answered.

I wished I could see his reaction, because I suspected there
was one. There was an edge to his voice when he asked, “How badly was she
beaten?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I’ve never seen anything like that
before. It seemed really bad to me, but she was liking parts of it, the way he
touched her after he hit her. She had all these red welts and I didn’t want to
watch anymore after he hit her breasts.”

The sharp edge still remained in his tone. “So did you keep
watching?”

“Yes,”

“Why?”

I took a breath. I couldn’t avoid mention of Michael now.
Let it be on The Businessman, though. I didn’t control the questioning.
“Because Michael made me.”

“How did he make you? Were you restrained, unable to leave?”

“No. I could have left. He told me that. I guess, well ...
there was this bar he made me hold and ... he just made me watch. I don’t
really ...” I floundered around. It was an excellent question, one I
surprisingly couldn’t answer.

The Businessman didn’t say anything. He waited for a
complete response. What was it? Was I afraid of punishment if I stopped
watching? No, I wasn’t thinking about punishments at that point. Michael hadn’t
threatened me. I remembered him shoving his fingers inside me and ordering me
to grab the damnable bar. He told me to keep watching.

Finally, I said the only truth I knew, though it seemed
lacking. “I guess he made me keep watching by telling me to do it.”

The Businessman was silent for a while longer. Some of the
edge was gone from his voice when he finally did speak. “Okay. Now turn
around.”

And I supposed that was that, at least for him. I wasn’t
going to forget the question, though. I believed there should be a better
answer than the one I gave.

I turned around, holding the inspection pose.

“Second inspection stance,” he said.

A few moments before that order, I didn’t think it possible
that I could be more embarrassed. I didn’t want to bend over. Through all of
the posing and questioning I never forgot how bright the room was, how naked I
was, in every way. He still wore his jacket, for God’s sake. And now I was
supposed to bend over, right in front of him? I couldn’t do it.

But I only had one other choice, to tell him I wouldn’t do
it, which meant putting on my clothes and leaving. I didn’t want to leave. I
needed a middle ground, a middle ground that he made clear didn’t exist. Hell.
I bent over.

I wished for some background noise in the room, music, or
television, or even the ticking of an old-time clock, anything to break up The
Businessman’s silent study of my most private parts. Between the awkwardness of
my full reveal and the blood rushing to my head because of the position, I knew
my face was growing red, a certainty that only made everything worse.

His voice cut through my consternation. “Have you ever had
anal intercourse?”

I may have said “Eep.” I know I said, “God no.”

“Okay. You can stand up straight. No position. We’re going
to the bedroom.”

And then he stood up and headed off into the next room.

Naturally, I followed. But slowly. I wondered to myself if
he were deliberately trying to shake me with his questions. What was his game?
I couldn’t be blamed for wondering. I didn’t know how anyone could spend any
amount of time with someone so shuttered, so closed off, and not wonder what he
was thinking.

The way he looked me over, and the questions, it was like an
interview, a naked, sexy interview, but one all the same.

I joined him in the bedroom and he instructed me to remove
the bedspread and blanket from the king-sized bed and to pile them in a corner
of the room. While I did that, he shrugged out of his jacket, removed his tie,
and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. I would have preferred he take off his
shirt with the jacket, but it wasn’t my call, was it? At least we were in the
bedroom, a serious improvement over the sitting room.

He told me to climb into the center of the big bed. Then he
explained he wanted me to “display” myself, his word, not mine. I knelt,
similar to how Elaine Hoyte knelt on the floor of the room in the sex club, the
exception being that The Businessman insisted I spread my knees. He demanded
further adjustments, which I obeyed as best I could.

Finally, he was satisfied. I was on my knees, which were
spread apart, and my hands rested on my upper thighs. The arch in my back
thrust out my breasts, and I held my head high with my eyes cast downward.

He called this the relax stance, something of a misnomer in
my opinion, since trying to hold the pose on the soft mattress was a serious
study in maintaining balance.

I tried to keep steady while he went over to the antique,
full-length mirror. The mirror’s feet must have been on sliding casters,
because he didn’t even grunt when he pushed the massive piece of furniture
toward the foot of the bed.

He maneuvered the mirror directly in front of me, then
adjusted the tilt until my image was reflected dead center. He pulled one of
the chairs over beside the mirror and sat down.

He casually crossed his legs. “Look at yourself.”

I did. I thought dumbly, yep, that’s me.

“Tell me three things you like about your body.”

I couldn’t resist glancing at him. Was he serious? He met my
gaze. Yes, he was serious. Okay then. Three things I liked.

“Well, I guess my hair is all right, though it’s not so
great right now, kind of frizzy because I didn’t style it.”

“What do you like about your hair?”

“It’s thick, and has some waves. I like that it’s long. I
like that it’s so dark, black. I don’t color it.”

“I can tell.”

I risked another glance at him to see if the statement was a
criticism.

“It’s good that you don’t color it,” he said. “What else do
you like?”

I studied myself in the mirror. I wasn’t accustomed to
searching for what I liked about my body. I would have said I liked my eyes,
but without mascara and some eyeliner, my eyes didn’t seem up to snuff. Eyes
were out.

“My nose is okay. It’s not too big, anyway.”

“Okay. One more.”

“My answer is kind of dumb.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“My knees.”

“Why?”

“Well, when they’re bent like this, they’re not all bony and
pokey-looking the way some people’s knees are. I like that they’re smooth.”

“You’re right, you have attractive knees.”

I smiled.

“Now tell me three things you don’t like about your body,”
he said.

I thought, only three? I had a certain level of confidence
in my body, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t aware that it could be better, way
better. I was a pro at finding things I didn’t like about myself.

I wished that my lips were fuller, that I had more defined
cheekbones, that my neck were longer, that my arms were more graceful, that my
feet were smaller. No matter how many sit-ups I did, I wished my stomach were
more toned and my waist narrower. No matter how many different cleansers and
over-priced creams I used, I wished my skin were clearer. I wanted thicker
fingernails and prettier teeth. A firmer butt. An endless critique.

I could only pick three? And I had to tell them to a man who
was silently observing me, kneeling and naked, with legs spread? He didn’t need
me to tell him what was wrong with me. I was certain he already had a complete
mental catalog.

I picked out three things, choosing my teeth and neck and
feet. I mumbled the reasons. The exercise was humbling, shaming. I didn’t like
it.

He didn’t speak until I was finished. “You didn’t say
anything about the obviously sexual parts of your body, like your breasts or
ass.”

I didn’t have anything to say to that, so I stared at the
white sheets.

“I personally believe that every part of a woman’s body is
erotic. And I find your body particularly appealing,” he said.

A rush of warmth flashed over me.

“I put you in that pose because I want to watch you touch
yourself, intimately.”

I inhaled. Were we done, finally, with the questions and
answers? I was definitely ready to be done with them.

“Touch your breasts,” he said.

Yep, we were done with the questions. I touched my breasts.

“Squeeze them, gently.”

I squeezed.

“Watch yourself in the mirror. Don’t look away.”

I stared at my reflection. Everything about me seemed small.
My embarrassment read clearly on my face, which surprised me, since I was
trying hard to suppress it. My hands looked tiny and weak on my breasts,
squeezing tentatively, clumsily. I couldn’t see myself in that little woman.

“Stop,” said The Businessman, “but don’t look away from the
mirror. Listen to me very carefully.”

I did as he asked and nodded.

His voice reached me low and clear. “There’s no place for
shame in what we do together. I enjoy a certain amount of humility in you, and
some embarrassment, but not shame. Never that. If I didn’t find you physically
attractive, I wouldn’t be with you. Remember that.”

“I didn’t put you in front of that mirror to degrade or
humiliate you,” he said.

He waited a few moments before continuing, allowed me to
take in his words. “Saturday night at the club you were watched. Afterward, you
watched others. I suspect you’ve never watched yourself, though. And so I’ve
put you in front of this mirror.”

Again he paused to give me time to think. His words soothed
away much of my self-consciousness. He found me attractive. I definitely found
him attractive.

And he was right about me never watching myself. It hadn’t
ever occurred to me.

“But the most important point here, is that I want to watch
you touch yourself,” he said.

He seemed far away, before, in that chair of his, the
cryptic line of his lips, the inscrutable dark eyes. My awareness of his actual
nearness grew as he told me he wanted to watch me touch myself. He soon seemed
to be practically sitting next to me in the bed.

The sensual tenor of his voice reached out and calmed me,
drew at me, scattered my reserve and my shame.

“I want you to touch your breasts again,” he said. “If it
helps you, imagine your hands are mine, that I’m the one squeezing your
breasts.”

I touched myself again, my hands steadier, less clumsy. I
imagined it was him touching me.

“Good. Run your fingers over your nipples. Play with them. I
want to see them hard.”

I did as he said, and watched in the mirror as my nipples
stiffened under my touch.

“Squeeze them between your fingertips. Harder. Just until it
hurts.”

I obeyed and sucked in my breath at the moment of pain.

“Twist them.”

I twisted.

“Harder.”

I twisted harder, and flinched.

He told me to pull my nipples, to rub and squeeze my
breasts. He wanted me to pull harder, to rub harder, so I did. I watched my
hands rub my breasts in the mirror. His hands, I thought. Where I wanted his
hands to be.

He ordered me to squeeze my breasts tightly, until my hand
was a claw and the flesh of my breasts bulged between my fingers. I clenched my
jaw and tightened my stomach against the sharp sensations.

I fell into the flow of his command.

My breasts were tingling and tight when he ordered me to touch
my stomach, then to move lower, between my legs. He told me to rub my pussy, to
lightly pinch my labia and spread them open, to reveal all of myself in the
mirror. To reveal myself to him.

He said, look, look at yourself, and so I did.

I flicked at my clitoris on his command. Then because he
wanted to see me do it, I slid my fingers into the folds of my pussy. I grew
ever warmer under his gaze, his low voice guiding my explorations. And the
demands kept coming, and I obeyed them all, having drifted into a sort of
unquestioning mode, a place where everything made sense, and nothing but
pleasure could follow, if I did what he told me to do.

Now, a sexy me looked back from the mirror. My eyes were
hooded and distant. My hair spread around my shoulders in shiny black tendrils.
My breasts were high and reddened from my handling. My pussy glistened from the
moisture that evidenced my arousal.

And he watched me. I felt his eyes on me. I wanted him to
see me.

The more he commanded and the more I obeyed, the sexier I
became. I no longer remembered that I’d been embarrassed and scared.

He told me to stick one finger inside myself. Then another.
I groaned. He had me spread open my labia with my other hand, the better for me
to see, the better for him to see. My fingers moved inside, standing proxy for
his fingers.

He told me to stay as I was, then he stood and walked over
to the bureau. He opened a drawer and pulled out a small black bag. After he
tossed the bag onto the bed beside me, he took the pillows from the head of the
bed and stacked them behind me.

He returned to his chair and told me to change position, to
lean back against the pillows and bend my knees, to spread my legs wide. In the
mirror, I was a wanton wild thing, splayed, ready for whatever might come. Did
he see it? The wildness?

He had me open the black bag, search out a mid-sized black
dildo and a tube of lubricant. He instructed me to put some of the slippery
liquid on the dildo. I did everything he asked.

“Now, hold yourself open with your other hand and slip the
dildo inside you, slowly, slowly,” he said.

I slid the latex toy into my pussy. I groaned. My muscles
stretched easily to accept it. Keeping my eyes on the mirror, I was fascinated
by the way the dildo slowly disappeared inside my body.

He ordered me to pull it back out, also slowly. Then back
in. Then out. In. My hips rose slightly to meet my hand as I pushed the smooth
dildo into my pussy.