The Willing (6 page)

And then the penny dropped. "You had the contracts ready…"

"I like to be prepared." He didn't even try to hide his self-satisfaction. "May I?" Without waiting for my answer, Oliver sat down beside me on the couch and proceeded to lay out two manila folders. One was an employment contract, thick with fine print and, I assumed, no details of our actual arrangement. The other was a non-disclosure agreement. "You'll have to sign both," Oliver told me. "I'm afraid I need this concluded tonight or I can't transfer the first thousand dollars into your bank account."

"Please tell me you don't have my bank details in a file somewhere," I begged, only half joking. For all that Oliver was asking me to smack him around in bed for the next three months, there was no mistaking that for weakness or passivity in any other aspect of his life. Occasionally, he even came across as a little bit, well, scary.

He quirked a smile and we were so sitting close I could see the tiny crow's feet at the corners of his eyes crinkle. "I hoped you'd agree to my terms. I didn't actually expect you to do so. Do you need a moment to read over the contract?"

I nodded, deliberately looking away. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of seeing my surprise at an actual, honest answer. "Can I have a drink?"

"Of course… What would you like? I have scotch, chocolate liqueur, wine…"

"What about a Coke?" The last thing I wanted to do was get drunk in his apartment. If I was going to work for this man, I needed to do it sober and fully in control of my faculties.

"I'll see what I can do."

Oliver left me alone on the couch and out of the corner of my eye, I watched him disappear through a swinging door into a chrome-and-granite room that I could only assume to be the kitchen. I realized I hadn't been alone since I'd walked in; a minute ago, the breathing room would've been welcome. Now I just felt like an intruder in an apartment way outside my budget, never mind my league, with a Sisyphean task before me. Sure, it purported to pay well and the work was easy—three nights a week was nothing compared to working six days a week at the club and making a fraction of the fee Oliver was offering me—but the man intent on hiring me was everything but easy to get along with.

I turned my attention to the contract. I'd never been a fan of legalese and Oliver seemed to have spared no punches when drafting our agreement. Yet beyond the convoluted terminology and the excessively thorough prose, I realized I'd been right to assume there would be no clear description of my activities in the computer-typed pages. The employment contract was standard order; my job as described therein was tantamount to "consulting and providing such assistance as deemed necessary" by and to Mr. Oliver Shepherd. No mention of whips, crops or riding crops. For all I knew, it was even defensible in court.

The elevator doors dinged and Oliver stepped out of the kitchen with a determined stride while I fought to keep my heart from leaping out of my chest. Was he expecting visitors?

"Should I—"

"Keep reading," he said, over his shoulder, and reached for screen on the side of the foyer wall. When I came in, I'd dismissed that as some kind of wall-mounted TV: it took me a minute to realize it was a direct feed showing whoever had pressed the penthouse button from within the elevator. There were probably other monitors around the house, including upstairs, where Oliver had been as I'd walked in. (Unless of course he had scurried up the stairs immediately after buzzing me in, which I found appropriately hilarious but pretty unlikely.)

He could order me to look away all he wanted, my self-preservation instinct was well-honed and I wasn't about to sit idly by while unknown persons walked in. This was how girls in my profession wound up in hospital, or dead in a ditch.

I heard a voice as the elevator doors slid open: obviously male, youngish, urbane. "Good evening, sir," it said, "shall I uncap this for you—"

"That won't be necessary." Oliver, I thought, interrupting. "Thanks."

"My pleasure, sir."

The doors slid back shut again without my seeing who was inside. Instead, I watched Oliver turn around, a bottle of Coke in hand.

"Would you like a glass or will this do?" He was smiling, the bastard.

"Did you just get one of your minions to run to the store for you?"

Oliver rolled his eyes. "Bond villains have minions, Jocelyn. I have employees." He uncapped the bottle bare-handed and handed it over to me.

I thanked him despite a desire to snub him just for the hell of it. The Coke was cold and syrupy-sweet on my tongue. I swallowed a mouthful. "It's Jo, by the way."

"Oh? Last night you said—"

"
Jocelyn
is a nursing school student with a tabby named Athos, a goldfish named Porthos and a vibrator named Aramis. She likes Pina Coladas and walks in the rain." In other words, she was a patently obvious fake I used when I needed a cover story for nosy clients. If Oliver wanted to hire the domina in me, then
Jocelyn
couldn't be part of our arrangement. She'd piss herself with fright.

"I see," Oliver drawled. "And Jo?"

"Will sign your contract if you hand her a pen." I wasn't prepared to divulge more information than that.

He didn't dither. The fountain pen he handed me was the real deal, down to the gold nib and the heft of it in my hand. "Normally I'd say talk it over with a lawyer first," Oliver remarked, "but this time..."

"The sensitive nature of our arrangement doesn't lend itself to outside counsel?" I suggested, brow arched. "Don't worry, I'm used to signing my name to things. You're not the only paranoid boy in this town."

A smirk drew up the corners of his lips. "And the NDA, please."

I hadn't pored over that piece of paperwork with the same conviction, but a quick glance told me it was standard fare. "A foreign ambassador—and I can't name any names—once put in his NDA that so much as miming the acts we engaged in together would result in automatic legal action. Ah, I see you've covered the social media bit."

"I move with the times," Oliver shot back. He didn't sound the least bit put off by my cavalier approach to his judicial posturing. Was he flirting?

"Right... you never know when your favorite sex worker gets a twitter account and starts live-blogging your time together." Of course some people were exhibitionists and broadcasting their affairs in the bedroom was a turn-on. I ventured a guess that Oliver wasn't among them.

I slid the paperwork across the table to him. "Here you are, boss."

"You've written your bank account number in the margins. How clever. "Oliver made a face as he collected the documents and checked to make sure I'd signed in all the right places. "By the way, I'd really prefer it if you didn't call me that. It spoils the illusion."

"Alright." I'd had clients who gave me fake names, or told me to hurl abuse at them while we played, call them little or small. Avoiding certain words while embracing others was a bit of mental footwork I'd mastered long ago. "Where do you want to do this?"

His eyes snapped up to meet mine so fast I wondered if he'd get whiplash. "Here." I watched Oliver clear his throat, looking a little flustered. "I mean, in the bedroom."

"Your bedroom?"

"Yeah..."

My first instinct was to say sure; after all, it was his dime, his call. Integrity prevailed. "That's not going to work for me. You should have a place to sleep that's not affected by our… activities."

"What, like some sort of safe room?" he scoffed.

"Something like that. Do you have a guest bedroom?" In a penthouse this big, I figured we could find a spare room to use besides Oliver's. Part of me didn't want to see what his private space looked like, if he kept books by the bed or if he had a Wii game console. As long as he was just another client, I didn't have to worry too much about liking him.

Oliver rolled his eyes at me. "I have seven."

"Terrific," I drawled and tried not to think unkind thoughts his way. Some of us had to work for a meager two-room apartment while others were born with a silver spoon clenched between their teeth. Tempting as it was to mope about my lack of financial security, I had a job to do. "Show me."

The change in tone was obvious. I didn't shout or bark orders, but neither did I invite Oliver to comply. It was a clear request, with a clear purpose. The choice to obey was all his. I figured if he couldn't do that now, we'd have no hope later on down the line.

There was a reason I rarely took on novices back in my days at the club. People thought they wanted to be dominated and yet at the first sign of authority they would put their foot down out of habit; the whole thing unraveled after that, like trying to put a square round through a square hole. I knew it was hard to give up control, particularly to a virtual stranger, but if a client couldn't do that much, I didn't pin high hopes on the rest of our frolics.

I expected Oliver to be similarly inhibited.

I was wrong.

He went from slumped decadently on the couch to standing ramrod straight, a hand held out to help me to my feet. I took it gingerly, torn between admiration and surprise. His palm was very soft, no calluses to speak of. I wondered if he moisturized.

Not such a novice after all
, I thought as we climbed the steps to the upper floor. As downstairs, the floor was marble. The walls had been patterned with cream and gold, open doors leading the way into rooms decorated with artistic flair and visibly unused.

"Will this do?" Oliver asked softly as we stopped on the threshold of a white-walled bedroom. There was very little furniture inside: only a dark wood bed and a pair of low side tables caught the eye. I noticed the headboard was cast iron. Conveniently, there was also a sturdy-looking footboard. I stepped inside, my boots catching on soft carpet.

He could kneel here. He could get carpet burn here.

"This is what we'll do," I said. "Before every session, you'll bring in whatever toys you want to use. Whether or not we do use them will be decided at my discretion." And depending on his conduct. If I just gave in every time he asked for something, neither of us would be getting very much out of our time together. My voice echoed off the walls. I tried not to imagine the smack of a paddle against Oliver's ass ricocheting in similar fashion. It was not an unappealing prospect.

Oliver nodded solemnly. "Understood."

"Is there an en-suite bathroom?"

"Yes, through that door." He pointed and I went to check it out. The lights flicked on to reveal white and coral tiles, and a wide mirror over the sink. No tub, but the shower cubicle could easily fit two people. Good. I'd had submissives before who dropped badly after a session. I wanted to be sure I could reach Oliver in case there was a point of similarity. Preparing for the worst made it all the more comfortable for me to indulge my need to unravel men like Oliver—because it
was
an indulgence. I could hem and haw all I wanted about sex work and contracts, but at the end of the day, I wouldn't have done this if I didn't enjoy it.

I closed the bathroom door behind me and joined Oliver at the foot of the bed. He hadn't moved an inch. "You've had some training."

His jaw tightened. Clearly, that wasn't something he wanted to discuss with me. I could wait him out, if this was to be our power dynamic.

"Some," he confirmed after a long pause.

The thought crossed my mind that I could push and prod until he confessed the circumstances and extent of that exploration, but I didn't really see a point to it. Our first session would tell me all I needed to know. The least I knew about previous partners and the easier it would be to be Oliver's domina rather than his shrink.

"Let's go back downstairs," I suggested firmly. This time, he didn't reach for my hand and I didn't take his.

With every step that took us further from the freshly-designated playroom, Oliver seemed to breathe a little easier. By the time we reached the foyer, he'd regained a certain swagger in his step. He regarded me coolly, more master than submissive. I fiddled with my purse strap under his intense stare.

"When do you want me?" I was back to being the service provider dependent on a client's agenda.

He mulled over the question. "Are you free tomorrow night?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Then tomorrow, eight o'clock. You'll confirm by phone." He gave me his number for that purpose and added his personal email address in case I couldn't reach him via text message.

I touch-typed both into my smartphone. "This is how men like you get hacked, you know. Guess I'll see you tomorrow night, then." The reality of the deal I'd committed to was slowly sinking in. I thought of returning here three times a week for the next few months and servicing Oliver Shepherd. There was no glamour to it, just necessity. Or so I told myself. The truth was I'd been a domina in less luxurious places, to far less good-looking men.

"Don't be late," were Oliver's parting words, no more gentle than if he'd pushed me down the elevator shaft with his both hands. 

Chapter four

"You went to see him." Carrie didn't wait for me to sit down before letting loose her opening volley.

I felt chastened without really knowing why. "I did."

"And?" Carrie fiddled with her laminated menu. "How did it go?"

I thought back to the frosty reception, the NDA, Oliver's subtle shift. "I slapped him?" That seemed like a safe thing to divulge, harmless compared to the rest.

Carrie's pretty brown eyes widened. This was quite a feat since her face was dominated by big, round eyes and even bigger glasses. "Why?" She asked, gaping at me like I'd grown a second head. "What did he do?"

"He got frisky. Or I thought I did." My shoulders twitched up in a shrug. "I think it might have been one of those misunderstandings that everyone feels super bad about afterwards..." I tried to focus my attention on the menu. "Anyway, any idea what's good here—"

"Hang on. You had a misunderstanding that involved punching Oliver Shepherd?"

"Shh," I hissed, glancing around to the other tables to see if anyone had overheard. No one seemed to be looking our way. "I didn't punch, I slapped him."