Torment Me (Rough Love Part One) (8 page)

Fuck. I wanted to be angry. I wanted to throw
him
out of the tub, but he felt so good inside me. He reached down to massage my clit.

“You can see me, starshine. You can see all of me. Just agree not to see anyone else for a while.”

Oh God, the temptation. I really wanted to know what he looked like. I couldn’t bear to never know, to never see him. “Fine,” I said in a huff. “I’ll be exclusive with you for a few months. Will you take off the blindfold now?” I wanted to see him so badly.

He gripped my wrists. “No, next time. Next date.”

“Why next date? Why not now?”

“Because I said so. When I set up our next date, Henry will tell you which hotel, and what time to be in the lobby. If you recognize me when I come in, we’ll have our date. If you don’t recognize me, too bad. No date, no money, no tip. No seeing what I look like.”

“How am I supposed to recognize you? Magic?”

He took my wrists and pulled my hands up, and flattened them against his cheeks. “Feel me. Learn me. You’ll be able to recognize me.”

Oh, God, I was touching his face. It felt so sudden, so intimate. I tried to think how he looked from the contours I felt. His cock was still inside me—I knew his cock. I knew it well. But everything else, I was feeling for the first time. He moved inside me, fucking me as I raped his face with my sense of touch.

Stubble. I knew there would be stubble. Soft eyebrows, taut cheekbones, a masculine nose, not too pointy, not too prominent. At least I didn’t think so.

I traced his lips next. They felt firm and rough, and warm under my fingers. He opened his mouth and bit me, just above the knuckle. I laughed and felt his cock buck inside me. I’d never recognize him, but this was wonderful. I reached up to explore his scalp, and the texture of his hair. It was short, a little prickly. Cropped close on the sides, but a little longer on top. Much longer near the front.

“What color is your hair?” I whispered.

“That’s cheating,” he whispered back. “Are you going to come or not? The water’s getting cold.”

He made me come about thirty seconds later, because he knew how to do that, and the whole time I groped his face, trying to picture him.

“Talk to Henry,” he said as he drained the water from the tub. “Tell him you agree to be exclusive. And find me next time we meet. You know enough by now to pick me out of a crowd.”

I didn’t think I did, but perhaps I’d recognize him by some internal lust-meter. How could I not recognize the man who’d given me so many orgasms? I’d give it a try. At least I wouldn’t have to wear this damn eye mask anymore.

He threw a towel over my shoulder, and we dried off. Afterward, he led me back into the room. “Sit,” he said, and I sat when he forced me down, trusting a chair would be there. “Did you bring extra clothes?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“
Yes, Sir.
Use your damn manners.”

“Yes, Sir, I brought extra clothes.” I hoped I didn’t sound too sassy. He put a hand on my back and shoved me forward in the chair. Oh, Jesus.

“Be still,” he said. “Don’t move.”

I felt a weird, tingling sensation on my back, from shoulder blade to shoulder blade. I finally realized he was writing on me. Too much to hope for, that it wasn’t permanent marker.

“What do you do, that you have so much money?” I asked while he scrawled across my back.

I didn’t think he’d answer, but he said, “Design.”

“What do you design?”

“None of your business.”

High fashion? Web design? What kind of designer made enough money for Park Hyatt call-girl sessions?

“I thought you might be an Ivy League English professor, with all the poetry,” I joked.

He did a flourish with the marker against my lower back. “Poetry is just another form of design.” I heard him cap it and zip his briefcase, and then begin to dress. My hands were free. I could have unbuckled the blindfold and looked at him before he could stop me. I could have finally seen what he looked like, and satisfied my curiosity. Of course, I also would have lost his trust, and possibly the ability to see him again. My whore hands stayed curled in my lap.

“There’s a pool here,” he said. I heard the whispery sound of him sliding on his shoes. “Did you bring a bathing suit?”

“No.”

“Next time, bring a bathing suit. Will you stay here tonight?”

“I don’t know.”

“You can if you want. I won’t come back and bother you.”

It was almost sweet, how he wanted me to stay in these ritzy hotel rooms after he left me. Like he wanted to spoil me. More likely, he knew I’d think about him the entire time I was here. While I was on the bed, I’d think about him. While I was in the bathroom, I’d look at the tub and remember his skin against mine, and the smell of the soap, and the soft, scratchy loveliness of his hair. If I wasn’t so chicken, I could know the color of that hair.

I would know the color of that hair, next time. Did that mean he trusted me now? I got a sickly, nervous feeling in my stomach at the idea of him revealing himself. Mere eye contact would feel like a crazy-scary level of intimacy after the way we’d begun.

He stroked my back and tugged a handful of my hair. “Goodbye, Chere. You can get up when you hear the door close.”

“Bye,” I said.

I heard his footfalls across the room, heard the door open and close. I wondered if he still felt pissed, or if he felt better now. My feelings had run the gamut since I arrived.

I took off the blindfold and stuck it in my bag, even though I knew I wouldn’t need it again. I tried to wrestle the halves of my stockings off the bedframe, but I couldn’t undo the knot. Oh well. I was sure the staff had seen everything in this kind of hotel. I collected the pieces of my dress and garter belt—he hadn’t taken them with him this time. I tried not to read anything into that.
He’s weird, don’t try to understand him.

And it was weird that it took that long to remember I had poetry on my back. I went into the bathroom and twisted around to try to read it in the mirror. No dice. I had to use my camera timer to take a photo. I swiped at the screen to enlarge the black words written on my skin.

Oh drink me up

That I may be

Within your cup

Like a mystery

I didn’t know if it was a whole poem or part of a poem, written by him or someone else. I typed the words into my phone’s search engine and got the answer:
Mystery
by D.H. Lawrence.
I lift to you my bowl of kisses/And through the temple’s blue recesses/Cry out to you in wild caresses.

I had cried out at his wild caresses, that was for sure. Well, as much as I could cry out when he gagged me. I touched my wrists, remembering the feeling of the zip ties, and then I touched the insides of my thighs, studying the pale pink marks from his belt. Talk about mystery...why the hell was I getting hot and bothered remembering that beating? Fuck me. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Oh, drink me up...

I sprawled back on the rumpled bed, masturbating and reading the words over and over, searching for meaning, or maybe the answer to a question I didn’t know how to ask. When I finished with a shuddering orgasm, I stood and crossed to the window to look out at the city. W always picked the higher floors with the best views. Beautiful, so beautiful.

Maybe I would stay here tonight and gaze out at the vibrant cluster of New York City’s lights. This room was so white and clean and bright, nothing like the loft I shared with Simon. Our loft was dark and claustrophobic, with no view at all.

I met with Henry a couple days later, at a quiet, private cafe in midtown. The first thing he did, after air-kissing both of my cheeks, was look into my eyes with deep concern. “How are you, Chere?” he asked.

“I’m fine.”

“Talk to me about this exclusive arrangement with Mr. Cumming. Two dates ago, you were calling me to complain about him. You said he was an asshole.”

“He is an asshole.”

He waved to the waitress, and when Henry waved, women always came running. When she scurried over, he asked for a seltzer, then turned his attention back to me. “You know, you don’t have to be exclusive just because he asked you to.”

“I know. But I’ll make more money by being exclusive, right?” I didn’t want to admit the real reason I agreed...so I could see what the asshole looked like. “Not just more money, but less work.”

“Less work now. More work later, when you have to build up your client list again.”

“That’s where you come in. You always find more perverts to send me. I assume that’s not going to change.”

Henry smiled at me, his friendly, handsome smile with his white, handsome teeth. “I’ve got your back, love. I’ll always have your back.” He turned to the waitress and gave her the same drop-dead smile as she handed him his drink. “Thank you, Jessica,” he said, reading her name off her tag. “I appreciate it.”

Jessica practically curtsied as she backed away from the table. Ridiculous, his effect on women. I was glad he was my agent and not my boyfriend, not that Simon didn’t turn a certain type of woman weak at the knees. But Simon was artsy-beautiful. Henry was beautiful-beautiful.

“One to two times a week,” he said, turning back to me. “That’s your contractual duty. And those are two-hour sessions, not overnights. It’s a great arrangement, Chere. If you’re willing...” He shrugged. “Why not?”

Oh, there were so many why nots, but I wasn’t going to share them with Henry. I sipped my Irish coffee and looked out at the street, at people hurrying to appointments or jobs or lovers. “Do you know what he does for a living?” I asked.

“No.”

“Where he lives?”

He spread his hands. “New York, some of the time. I don’t know any more than that. I told you, I don’t even know his real name. He pays me from a business account.”

“What kind of business?”

“Taunt, Incorporated. It’s a dummy account, as the name suggests.”

I blew out a breath and rested my head on my hand. “It’s so weird. Most of them are proud of what they do. Most of them want me to know who they are, how rich and powerful they are, even the ones who want me to spank them and make them stand in the corner.”

Henry leaned closer to me. “Why does it matter so much to you? You’re not supposed to know anything aside from the client’s first name, and you know why.”

Agency rules, so we wouldn’t be tempted to contact clients outside of work. Bad for business. Bad for security. Bad for commissions.

“That’s not why I want to find out more about him,” I said. “I’d never cut you out after all you’ve done for me.”

“I know. But that’s not the only issue.”

He stared at me hard. We could have whole conversations without talking.
Clients are clients. The relationship ends when they walk out the door. Don’t think of them as anything more than a business transaction. Don’t try to get too close to them.

Don’t ever, ever fall in love.

“It’s because he’s so different from the rest of them,” I said. “A mystery. I’ve dated him three times and I still don’t know what he looks like. But now, I guess I’ll get to see what he looks like. A perk of going exclusive.”

“I’m
dying
to know what he looks like,” he said, taking a swig of his drink. “You have to call me right after your date. I hope he’s not a gorilla.”

“He might be.”

Henry laughed. He used to be a very successful gigolo. His laugh made women’s vaginas wet. Not mine, of course. Henry was my boss. A sexy boss, but still.

“If you find out his real name at some point, will you tell me?” I asked. “I won’t tell him you told me.”

“He’ll tell you himself one day, if he wants to. Otherwise, don’t worry about it. I extra-checked that there wasn’t something deeper going on with him. He’s safe. His privacy...”

He paused.

“What? What do you know about him?” I begged. “Just tell me. Give me one fucking scrap. I’m the one who has to date him, and in three dates, I’ve had his cock up my ass twice. Not a small cock either. Spill it.”

He held up a finger. “I’ll tell you this one thing. His desire for privacy isn’t based on necessity. He’s not a public figure or a celebrity. He’s not in hiding, or running from the law. He’s not a secret agent.”

I thought to myself that he would make a pretty good secret agent. He was great at torture. “Darn,” I joked. “So he’s not dangerous at all?”

“He’s not dangerous at all,” Henry confirmed. “And that’s all I’m telling you about the mysterious Mr. Cumming.”

I shot him a side-eye. “But...do you know more?”

“Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“You’re an asshole sometimes.”

“That’s probably true, but you need me if you’re going to work. And as you know, this dude’s not going to stick around forever. All men get tired of the thing they have, and want some new thing. He’ll eventually move on, and take his money and his secrecy with him, and oh, how we’ll miss it.” He reached out to stroke my arm. “So string him along for as long as you can. You’re making a lot of bank right now. Don’t fret about who he is, or why he’s the way he is. Just be sexy, pretty Miss Kitty. Meow.”

“He knows my real name is Chere.”

Henry’s eyes widened. “I never told him.”

“I told him. I don’t know why.” I confessed it to Henry because he might eventually find out, and it was against agency rules to share our real names. “He asked me in such a demanding, scary way. It blurted out of my mouth. I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t tell him your last name?”

“No.”

“Or anything else about yourself? Where you live? Simon’s name?”

“No. Of course not.” I didn’t mention that W probably had all that information from looking at my phone. Henry was the one who had okayed the blindfold. I also chose not to mention the bondage. That wasn’t allowed either, except with established clients and Henry’s express permission. This whole conversation was making me feel sneaky and defensive. I’d never broken any of Henry’s rules before now.

“He hated the name Miss Kitty,” I said, as an excuse. “He hates fake stuff.”

Henry’s expression lost some of its warmth as his gaze bore into me. “Everything between the two of you needs to be fake. The escort-client relationship is fake. Don’t ever forget that, love.”