FightingforControl (2 page)

There was no way she would give up on gaming media. Her
ideas were as good as those suggested by the younger artists. Half the time she
and Brad had similar thoughts on a new project. Kaylee—who was barely out of
diapers, for God’s sake—loved some of the suggestions Lori came up with. Age
wasn’t the issue.

Or maybe Mr. Riggs’ age was the problem. But suggesting that
would get her a ticket straight to women’s wear. The department needed a
marathon planning session to see what they could come up with.

Entering her cubicle, Lori dropped her purse in the bottom
desk drawer and picked up the stack of messages sitting in front of her
monitor. Taking a sip from her fat-free latte, she sank into her chair and
glanced at the first message before dividing them into piles of “call now”,
“delegate” and “trash”.

A third of the way in, she found a plain white business card
with nothing but a phone number on it.

1-800-DOM-help.

Really? She doubted DOM stood for domestic. Was this Marc’s
idea of a joke? Who else would leave a card for a BDSM club on her desk? Was he
really trying to get her to participate in a kinky scene?

She snorted softly and tightened her lips. What some people
went through in the name of sex! Her roommate in college had a Master/slave
relationship with an older man she’d met in a club. The young woman’s eyes
would glaze over at the mention of his name, as if that name alone brought her
close to ecstasy.

Lori wasn’t against toys and role-playing. Even an
occasional spanking. One guy she’d been with had been into flogging. She had to
admit sex had been pretty good with him. But it had always happened in the
privacy of their bedroom, or kitchen or wherever.

She couldn’t imagine having sex in front of an audience, not
with her body showing its age. There was no way she’d let a stranger tie her up
and do whatever he wanted, either. What about what she wanted? There was little
point in having sex if it didn’t meet the needs of both people involved.

Still, the thought of sex with Marc—or Brad, for that
matter—filled her fantasies as often as celebrities did. They were both young
and hot and perfect fantasy fodder. Something about the way they were always
laughing really turned her on. She could summon up that sound, their rich, sexy
laughter, when she was masturbating and amp up the heat.

As she reached to toss the card in the wastebasket, someone
spoke behind her. “Good morning, Lori. Anything exciting to start us off
today?” Brad’s smooth-as-rum-and-ginger-ale voice sent shivers down her spine.

“Here, this ought to get your mind in gear.” She handed him
the card before realizing what he’d think. Her grab for it was too late as he
swung his hand out of reach.

“Whoa, is this an invitation?” Brad parked his hip on the
corner of her desk as he studied the card.

Lori reached for the card. “Yeah, right. Somebody left it
with my messages.”

Marc entered the doorway of her cubicle, filling it with
both his body and his warrior-god presence. He was much quieter than his
friend, but she couldn’t help but notice him when he was around. Notice him and
drool a bit. “What’s up?”

Brad held out the card. “Lori’s found a new playground.”

“It’s not mine,” she argued. “I’m sure one of you is behind
its being here. Feel free to take it with you.”

“Maybe we should check it out together,” Brad offered.

She raised a brow and looked at him. He had to be joking.
She was half tempted to play along, but that kind of gossip was the last thing
she needed broadcasted around the water cooler. She waved a hand for them to
leave. “Yeah, you two go check it out. But not until we’ve fixed the sports
drink project. Riggs is already bitching about it this morning.”

Marc threw a telling look at Brad. “You’re right. We should
discuss it after work. Over drinks. Tonight?”

“Dream on, guys. Going out for drinks with the department is
one thing. But I’m not going to a kink club with coworkers.” Realizing how
open-ended that sounded, she raised a hand before they could speak. “It just
gets too complicated. I mean, we have to see each other here every day. And we
need to be able to concentrate.”

“Why would having drinks with the two of us be any different
than if Kaylee or Tim were there?” Brad’s innocent words were a physical touch
stroking down her side, causing heat lightning to flash and pool between her
thighs.

She couldn’t come up with a reasonable answer, because her
brain was already sitting in a club with them, laughing, flirting, enjoying
some innuendo.

Those images changed to the tame dinner-and-movie routine
her ex had preferred, and the few men she’d dated since him. Even the sex had
been predictable. She would swear he had counted the number of strokes before
he came, just like brushing his teeth. She had to work to hide the shudder that
threatened at the thought of more of the same with a new man.

Lori shooed the men out of her cubicle and gathered her
messages into a neat stack to call later. As she reached to set them near her
desk phone, the business card fell into her lap. How had it gotten back in her
messages? Brad must have slipped in there when she wasn’t looking.

The plain black lettering glared in her face.
1-800-DOM-help.

It said
help
. Her old relationships had definitely
needed help. What could it hurt to call?

What would it hurt? She didn’t have an answer and that
worried her more than the thought that those two men were up to something.
Maybe it was a dating service, only for people looking for something a little
bit more adventurous. Was she adventurous?

No!
As much as she complained about tame sex, she’d
never tried to meet a man who looked the bad boy type. She didn’t want the real
thing, only one who could perform in bed. The rest of the time he should look
intelligent and successful. Be intelligent and successful. She liked the
fantasy of a handsome hunk who’d sweep her off her feet and seduce her to
heights yet unattained, but she’d been around long enough to know her odds of finding
that were slim to snowball-in-hell.

She suddenly realized she was considering calling,
considering meeting a man—a Dom. She caught herself. She just wanted to ask
questions, find out why people seemed to get so much enjoyment from the
lifestyle. A vision appeared of her old roommate’s blissful expression at the
mention of her boyfriend’s name. Had she ever felt that way herself about a
man?

Perhaps the men in her past had been too meek.

Her panties grew damp as her body agreed with the point and
considered someone exciting. But it wasn’t safe, getting into potentially
dangerous situations with strangers. Women who did that ended up surrounded by
half-awake homicide detectives holding steaming cups of coffee as they waited
for CSI to fish body parts out of the Dumpster.

She tossed the card into the wastebasket.

* * * * *

Sitting on her couch that evening, Lori couldn’t quite
recall how the business card had ended up in her purse. Yet when she pulled out
her cell phone, the card fluttered to the floor. Heat washed over her skin at
the sight of it, fueled by the memory of the excitement—no,
desire
—she
had felt when she’d thought about letting a man take control of her sexually.

She pictured lying on her bed, hands and feet bound to the
bedposts with silken ropes. What would he do to her? Explore her body with
toys? Too tame. But she wasn’t into pain.

That was why she needed to call the number. She couldn’t
even fantasize about it because she had no clue what really went on in a BDSM
club. All she knew was something inside her had wakened and wasn’t going to be
satisfied until she found a man who could show her.

With shaking fingers, she dialed the number. When a male
voice answered, she almost hung up. Could she explain her situation to a
faceless male?

“Thank you for calling 1-800-DOM-help. This is the Operator.
How may I be of assistance?”

Lori blinked. “I’m not sure. I found a card with this number
on it and…well, I…”

“You’d like to make some changes in your relationship?”

She stood and wandered around her living room. “I guess
that’s the problem. I’m not in a relationship. I can’t seem to find a guy
who’s…well, man enough for me. I’ve pretty much quit looking. I’m tired of the
disappointment.”

“I see. You prefer a man who would take control of a
situation?”

“I don’t like that word, control. I don’t want to be
controlled. I’m fully capable of handling anything that comes up. That’s how I
got where I am at work. I just get tired of always having to be the one who
decides where we eat, what movie we see, what position we’re in.”

The man on the phone was silent for a moment, then drew a
deep breath. “One who can make decisions, then.”

“Yes. Competent decisions.”

“Competent decisions,” he echoed, the clicking of a keyboard
in the background.

“So, this is like a dating service?”

“We assist individuals in search of a Dom or sub, as well as
providing a secure location to meet for those in a relationship who want to
make changes. We often refer them to Unfettered, a private club. Have you any
experience in BDSM?”

“No. Some men I work with suggested I might, um, enjoy
relationships more if I learned to be submissive.”

“Let me transfer you to someone who can set things in motion
for you. One moment.”

Chapter Two

Never in her wildest dreams would Lori have imagined spending
a Friday night walking through a sex club. Unfettered—what a name. What did it
even mean? Walking through a club was probably more believable than actually
participating, though. Would she have to do…whatever in front of an audience?
That was definitely out. Her guide, Mistress Marla, told her she needed to know
what she was and wasn’t willing to do. So far, the “wasn’t” list was longer.

No blood play, urine or feces. Talk about
ew
! Those
last two were real mood killers, as far as she was concerned. But she was
trying to remain open-minded. Mistress said there might be areas that sounded
like turn-offs but would be enjoyable if experienced with the right Dom. Lori
reserved the right to decide later, if the right guy came along.

They stopped in the hallway off the main reception area, in
front of a curtained section of wall. The female gasps and moans coming from
the other side of the fabric caused Lori to wriggle as she stood. Pain and
pleasure. The woman’s reactions were audibly distinct, reacting to the discomfort
but obviously enjoying it.

Before Lori could wonder what the woman had submitted to,
Mistress Marla pushed a button that opened the black drapes. “We have many
private or semi-private rooms available, as well as the public areas.”

A spotlight in the ceiling inside the room shone on the far
wall where a woman was shackled to some sort of rope web. She wore only black
leather straps with chains draped between the leather, leaving most of her
flushed skin bare, and a mask over her eyes.

Her Dom, whose black leather pants and dark, muscle-defining
t-shirt left nothing to the imagination, stood before her toying with the
clamps on the woman’s breasts. Each movement caused her to cry out, after which
she shuddered and moaned.

“You do not have permission to come yet, slave.”

“Yes Sir,” the woman gasped, followed by a whine.

Spellbound, Lori was unable to tear her eyes away. The
growing damp spot in her panties was proof of how much the woman’s experience
was turning her on. Who knew she liked to watch? Or imagine herself in this
woman’s shoes? Glancing down, Lori noticed the black fuck-me pumps and had to
smile. She wouldn’t mind those shoes, for sure. “They really don’t mind if
we’re out here?”

“They would have chosen a room without a view, so to speak,
if that were the case. Shall we go on?” Mistress Marla’s eyes sparkled in the
light from the room, her smile knowing.

Mistress could probably smell Lori’s arousal. How
embarrassing. That was something she’d have to get used to if she
participated—other people knowing why she was here, and how horny she was. Even
if she insisted on a private room, she’d see people in the reception area.
People would see her.

What if someone from work, someone she knew, saw her? It
could be the end of the career path she was on.

They passed by scene after scene of people in various states
of undress or costume, who used tools, toys or their bare hands to inflict pain
and pleasure on each other. Some scenes left her unmoved or squeamish, while
others had her panting like she’d jogged around the building.

“What type of scene would you prefer?” Mistress Marla had
led her to a private sitting room where she invited Lori to sit in one of the
upholstered chairs.

“I’m still not sure this is for me.” Lori crossed her legs
and folded her hands in her lap.

Mistress Marla sat opposite her. Wearing a purple latex cat
suit, Mistress curled her legs into the seat and rested her elbows on the arms
of her chair. “Are you always this dishonest with yourself about your body’s
needs?”

Lori blinked. That was some salesmanship, to call a
potential client a liar. She didn’t need to explain herself or her sexual
decisions to anyone. “Look, I realize this sort of thing appeals to a large
number of people, but I’m not one of them. I’m capable of enjoying sex without
playing games.”

“Did anything you saw here tonight look like a game? Did
those marks left by whips look pretend? Was anyone faking an orgasm to please
his master?” Her facial expressions hadn’t changed from professionally
pleasant, but Marla’s tone told Lori she had crossed a line.

“I said that wrong. But it doesn’t change the fact I can’t
see myself doing those things.”