The Playboy's Proposition (17 page)

He was wearing black leather pants, a different pair than he
had worn the last time I saw him, but which fit him every bit as snugly. Silver
studs ran down the side seams. His black boots had silver accents as well.

He wasn’t wearing a shirt, just a supple-looking black
leather vest which was open, without closures of any kind. But no one could
care about the vest. It was just a frame for his toned arms, chest and stomach.
I wanted to run my hands over his lean fineness, feel my fingers rise and fall
over the ridges of his muscles.

A riding crop hung from a loop on the waistband of his
pants. I noticed a spot of white hanging there, too, like a handkerchief. As he
closed in on me, I realized what the white thing was -- it was white lace, like
the lace of my dress.

He was wearing it as if it were a medieval favor. My
medieval favor.

He swept me up into his arms and kissed me. I didn’t think
about how many people were around us. I didn’t care. I threw my arms around his
neck and kissed him back freely and honestly.

I hadn’t realized how much I missed him until I saw him
again. He looked and felt wonderful. He smelled and tasted wonderful. His
welcome left me breathless.

Michael nuzzled my neck and said in my ear so only I could
hear, “You’re beautiful.”

He held me tightly and I told him I missed him. He gave me a
squeeze then he turned to a patiently waiting Ron and Elaine, and they launched
into greetings and handshakes.

Michael kept his arm around me, his hand on my waist,
snugging me up close to his side. I looked up at him and smiled. It was good to
be near him.

Michael declined a tour of the place, saying it wasn’t
necessary since he had been to the ball in previous years. When Ron, with an
amusing hopefulness, asked if anyone was hungry, we all agreed the first order
of business would be hitting the buffet.

Since I was beginning to feel some butterflies in my stomach
knowing the sub auction was nearing, I limited myself to the lighter fare on
the buffet. The food was delicious nonetheless, as was the wine that was
maintained in good supply by a friendly waiter.

We were enjoying ourselves, chatting easily, when a man
approached our table. He was of above-average height, with long dirty-blonde
hair slicked back into a ponytail. His face was angular, verging on gaunt. I
guessed he was close to my own age.

Overall, he had a look of wiry strength. He wasn’t handsome
necessarily, but I could see how he might appeal to some women’s tastes.

He had on a pair of well-worn, brown leather pants, and some
sort of matching suspender things, with a strap crossing over his chest. He had
several tattoos, but the most noticeable ones were on his arms.

Realistic-looking barbed wire circled one of his biceps, and
thorny brambles circled the other. They were black and grey, finely shaded. But
what drew the eye was the way the spikes and thorns appeared to be piercing his
skin. Scarlet drops of blood dripped from the wounds and from the wire and
brambles, the only color in the tattoos. The blood was bright and shiny, truly
liquid-seeming.

They were obviously done by an artist. And they were
disturbing as hell.

Michael stood up to greet the man. They shook hands then
Michael introduced him to the rest of us. He said the man’s name was Kamun, and
told us that they sometimes worked together.

Ron, with that naughty twinkle he often had in his eyes,
said, “Kay Munn. That’s one I haven’t heard before. What is it? Dutch or
somethin’ like that?”

The tattooed man wasn’t amused. In a solemn voice he said,
“No, it’s just one word. Kamun.”

Ron said, “Oh, like the islands. You remember the Cayman
Islands, don’t you Lainey? I think your folks went there once on a cruise.”

Kamun said, his voice lower than before, “No. Not like the
islands. It’s spelled K-A-M-U-N.”

Even though Elaine was shooting Ron a definite
“knock-it-off” glare, it looked like Ron wasn’t finished poking fun at the newcomer’s
name. Michael broke into the conversation.

Michael said, “Kamun is a composer. You heard his work the
other night, Nonnie. I know you remember when I played it for you.”

My eyebrows shot up. Remember it? That horrible dark music
playing in that hideous hood? There was no forgetting it. And here was the guy
who composed it. Apparently the tattoos weren’t the most disturbing thing about
him.

I said that I remembered the music, then was saved from
having to praise it by Ron interrupting with, “Ohhh, you’re an artist type. I
get it now!”

I stifled a laugh behind my napkin, amused further by Elaine
looking like she wanted to stick her fork in Ron’s leg.

Michael kept a pleasant smile through it all. He asked Kamun
if he’d like to join us. To my surprise, Kamun accepted. While he was off
getting his food, Michael added a chair for him between Elaine and me.

Ron behaved himself during the rest of the meal and let
Kamun eat in peace. The conversation was light, and mostly about the ball and
the scheduled events. Elaine tried to convince Ron to enter the dance contest
with her, but he adamantly refused. Kamun complained that the music probably
wouldn’t be anything worth dancing to anyway.

I didn’t join in much, mostly listening. I didn’t like the
way Kamun’s leg kept brushing up against mine, as if by accident. In my
opinion, it happened too often to be accidental. A few times the back of his
hand brushed over my leg, too. I was relieved when the meal was over and we
decided to check out the dancing.

We claimed a table in the ballroom. I had hoped that Kamun
would wander off, but no such luck. I was stuck sitting next to him again. More
“accidental” brushes of his hand against my bare leg, until Michael asked me to
dance. Happy escape.

There wasn’t much time before my auction would begin. While
we were dancing, Michael gave me a quick rundown of what to expect once it
began.

He explained how the bidding worked. All the merchandise and
subs were being sold in a silent auction. The merchandise auction used an open
bid system where people wrote bids on a publicly-displayed form. Once the time
for bidding was over, the highest bidder was declared the winner of the item.

The sub auctions were also silent, but the bidding was
sealed. Boxes were placed on each stage. While the subs were being displayed,
bidders filled out a slip of paper with their name and the amount of the bid,
then dropped the paper into a slot in the box. Fifteen minutes after the
display time ended, members of the organizing committee collected the boxes,
determined the winners, and then posted the results at the welcoming table.

Michael said he thought they used closed bids for the sub
auctions because most people liked to be surprised by the winner. Also, as in
our case, it made it easy to rig the outcome if that’s what you wanted.

After a few dances with Michael, Ron ushered me out onto the
floor. He was remarkably agile for such a big man. Elaine told me afterward
that Ron lost a bet to her once and her prize was that Ron attend ballroom
dancing classes with her.

The highlight of the dancing was Elaine and Ron getting down
on Madonna’s “Like a Virgin.” The lowlight was being forced to dance with
Kamun.

I didn’t want to dance with him, but technically speaking,
ball or no ball, I was attending as Michael’s sub, and I was expected to do
what he asked of me. Unfortunately, he wanted me to dance with Kamun.

I think the DJ had it in for me. Kamun and I weren’t on the
dance floor two minutes when the DJ spun up R. Kelly’s “Sex Me.” I thought,
really?

I shot a glance or two at Michael while Kamun had me tight
in his clutches. Michael was clearly enjoying watching me with Kamun. He had
that half-lidded look he got when something was exciting him.

Well, at least one of us was aroused. Wait, counting Kamun,
that would be two, if that hard thing pressing against my belly was any
indication.

The moment the song ended, I pled fatigue and returned to
the table. Kamun escorted me then said he wanted another drink and left me
alone with Michael.

Michael asked, “What do you think about Kamun?”

“He’s okay I guess.”

“I’m pretty sure he likes you.”

“Okay.”

“He’s the friend I told you about, the one who’ll be winning
you at auction tonight.”

“Oh. Good, I guess. But, um, why can’t Ron do it? You know,
put in a bid to win me.”

Michael said, “Because Ron doesn’t know anyone on the
organizing committee to make sure he wins the bid.”

“Right. I forgot about that part.”

I had no sooner stopped talking then the DJ made an
announcement over the PA system. “Coming up in ten minutes, the female newbie
sub auction will begin. You’ll have thirty minutes to bid, so don’t miss your
chance. And for you participants, please report to your assigned stages in the
next five minutes.”

Michael looked at his watch and muttered an oath. “I didn’t
realize it was almost time. You look perfect enough to me, but if you want,
you’ve got five minutes to run to the bathroom. I’ll meet you at the entrance
to the auction room.”

I took a last bracing swallow of my cocktail, waved at Ron
and Elaine who both gave me reassuring smiles, then fled to the ladies room.

Here it was. The auction. What would it be like? I wished I
could have watched someone else go before I had to get up there. Why the hell
were newbie females up first? But no, the order was newbie females, newbie
males, trained males and the finale with the trained females. Hell.

My five minutes of prep time were over in what felt like
seconds. My stomach turned flips as I searched for Michael. There he was, right
where he said he’d be. His smile calmed me, and, putting a steadying arm around
my waist, he led me off to auction.

My stage was in the middle of the farthest wall. A small
table had been set in front of the stage and held a box, some printed slips of
paper and a few pens. The writing on the box read, “Sweet -- donated by Michael
Weston.” Obviously, I was Sweet.

Up on the stage itself, sat a brass easel supporting
hand-lettered poster board. Across the top it read, “Sweet.” Below that were
two short lists, one headed “Likes,” and the other “Dislikes.”

My likes were listed as walks on the beach at sunset,
picnics in the park, and kitty cats. My dislikes were long lines, snooty people
and war.

Below the lists was a space reserved for “Special Talents.”
There was only one line written underneath it: “First class blow jobs.”

I turned to Michael. “You’ve got to be kidding. Seriously?”

Michael smirked, “Admit it, it’s pretty funny.”

“Snooty people? Blow jobs?”

“The part about the blow jobs is true. Hey, they asked for
info and I gave it to them.”

I could only shake my head.

He said, “Look at the other posters. They’re all so serious.
This girl likes flogging but doesn’t like clamping. That one down there likes
light bondage and has a special talent of being flexible. It’s too serious.
Let’s have fun with this. I want you to have fun tonight. Come on, laugh. Or do
you not like kitty cats after all? I can scribble it out and write in ‘dog
lover’ if you want.”

I was forced to smile. He gave me a quick smooch on the side
of my mouth.

A woman holding a clipboard walked up and checked our names
off her list. She gave us a speedy rundown of what would happen. I would be on
display for 30 minutes. Michael could be on the stage with me, but no one else
was allowed to be up there, and no one other than Michael could touch me.
Because this was for charity, she encouraged us to find ways to drive up the
bidding, “within your personal limits, of course,” she added.

She told us that when the time was up, it would be announced
over the PA system, and we could then either rejoin the crowd, or use the
recovery room if we wished. She pulled back a black cloth hanging on the wall
beside the stage. It was the door that opened on the recovery room.

Michael assured her he had everything well in hand, knew
what to do, and so on. The woman asked us to get on stage and rushed away.

Michael helped me up the steps. It was only about three or
four feet high, but once I was up there looking out over the crowd, it felt
like it was twice as high.

How many people were out there? I couldn’t count. Not all of
them were looking at me, of course, but there were enough to set my nerves
jangling.

Could I do this?

Michael turned me away from the crowd, facing me toward the
wall. He took my handbag off my wrist and clipped it next to the handkerchief
on the waistband of his pants. He told me to relax, and stay where I was

He took a pair of fur-lined shackles that were hanging on
the wall and snapped them around my wrists. He then took the chain that hung
from the shackles and slipped one of the links over a swivel hook in the post
that jutted out high over my head.

My arms weren’t stretched tightly, leaving plenty of bend in
my elbows to keep the pose comfortable. The position did, however, make my
dress climb up a bit. There wasn’t a lot of dress to spare where the buttons
ended and I was in danger of exposing more than I had planned.

Michael stood in front of me, held my face and looked into
my eyes.

He said, “The restraints will make this easier for you, let
you know that you can’t run away. You’re doing this because I told you to. And
you want to please me. Isn’t that right?”

I took a deep breath. “Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Enjoy this, let it happen.” He ran his hands down my sides.
“Know that I’m a master who’s proud to display his lovely sub.”

I nodded. I could do this. I wanted to do this. My nerves
were fading and being replaced by a growing warmth.