“Excuse me, I think you dropped this.”

The man turned around. So he understood English at least. Good start. Laurel held up the black wool scarf she had just unwound from her own neck. She’d followed the man to his hotel a few blocks from the club. The finest hotel in the area, she noted, as he’d nodded to the doorman who impassively opened the large glass doors for him.

She’d nodded to the doorman as well, saying in German, “Cold as a witch’s tit, eh?” The man had done a slight double take and then grinned broadly as she sailed past him, her eye still on the broad back covered in a fine camelhair coat.

As he turned around she now noted his eyes, a dark, rich chocolate brown—unusual in a person with such blond hair. She felt his appraising gaze as his eyes quickly swept her. He smiled and said, “No, uh, sorry. I have my scarf.” He touched a tan scarf at his neck that perfectly matched his coat.

“Well then, guess I’ve got me a scarf,” Laurel grinned, draping it over her neck. She stuck out her hand and said, “Laurel Jordan, pleased to meet you.”

He automatically took her hand, shaking it firmly. “Jonathan Goldman.” They stood smiling at one another for a moment as she waited. After a beat he said, “Uh, would you like to go into the bar and have a drink, perhaps? Are you staying here?”

Bingo.
|
“I’d love to,” Laurel assented as if it were a brilliant idea, and one she never would have thought of on her own. She didn’t add that no, she would never drop four hundred dollars a night for a room, no matter how posh the hotel. “I’m staying with friends,” she said airily.

They settled themselves at the bar. Jonathan ordered another gin and tonic, Laurel asked for Cabernet. As they sipped their drinks Jonathan said, “So you’re American. What brings you to Germany?”

“The tail end of a few months of bumming around the continent. I’m going to give it another try back in New York. I have an idea for a club there, and a few friends with too much money for their own good willing to invest in it. I’ve already found the location and I have a partner too.”

“You’re from the city? I live in Manhattan. Work for a real estate development firm. Just finished closing a deal here with a German firm that wants to do business in the States. Small world.”

“It is. No matter where I go, I run into people from New York.” Though I don’t always follow them from strip clubs, she thought, inwardly grinning.
“So what’s this idea of yours for a club?”

Laurel took a drink of her wine and said, “A BDSM club. But not some dump in the basement of a clothing boutique or a warehouse, like most of them. Not a poser club for wannabe players dressing up in leather and pretending they have a clue. No, this would be something different—a full dungeon, professional Doms, paid membership. Very upscale.”

Jonathan’s eyes widened and he raised his eyebrows. “BDSM! Sadomasochism, whips and chains, all that stuff?”

Laurel laughed at the surprise in his voice. “Uh, yeah. You’ve heard of it?” Her tone was sardonic.

“Well sure, yeah. Cat woman in latex and stilettos wielding a whip over a little naked bald guy who’s licking her boot?”

Laurel laughed. “Oh stop. Surely you’re not that naïve. Even if you are American.”
Jonathan colored slightly and took a long drink of his gin and tonic. “So what would make your club different from the usual black walls, porn videos, fat girls in leather corsets and miserable lonely men in trench coats?”

“Sounds like you’ve been to a few of the clubs, huh, Jonathan?” She grinned, dimples appearing in each cheek as she watched him blush.

“Well, uh, you know. Passing through…”

“Passing through? So you have no fantasies of your own personal slave girl? Of having her meet you naked at the door each night, a whip in her mouth, forehead touching the floor, ass in the air?”

“Jesus,” Jonathan said. “No! I mean, I respect women.”

“So? What’s that got to do with what moves you sexually? With what turns you on?”

“Well, I mean, it’s just, I would never, you know, hurt a woman. Degrade her.”
“There’s nothing degrading about consensual submission,” Laurel said softly, putting her hand lightly over his. Jonathan didn’t pull away, instead narrowing his eyes as he regarded her.

Laurel wondered if he liked what he saw. She knew she was good-looking with dark wavy hair that fell in soft waves, large green eyes and fine, clear skin. Even at twenty-seven she barely needed and rarely used makeup. Her body was long and lean, the muscles a result of hard work and hard play. The idea of joining a gym to work out made her laugh—why pay to jump up and down and lift things? Why not just get out there and plant a garden or climb a mountain? Do something useful or do something fun. Life was too short to spend time sweating in a mirrored room with a bunch of overweight women jumping in place to bad disco music.

He wasn’t exactly falling over himself for her as so many guys did, but she liked that. He didn’t send off that desperate vibe that was so unappealing in a man. He seemed confident, if a little guarded about his sexual predilections. But maybe he was just being careful on her account—not wanting to shock her with his sadistic fantasies. If he even had them! Maybe Greta had been right and he was actually a sub! Watching the girl onstage with his hand over his cock, but in his mind’s eye it was himself on that stage. God, maybe he was gay too! A gay sub—terrific.

She smiled ruefully at the conversation in her head. “You have the most adorable dimples,” Jonathan said suddenly. He still hadn’t pulled his hand from beneath hers. Okay, not gay.

“And you have gorgeous teeth,” she responded. “I was always a sucker for good teeth.” They grinned at each other for a few seconds and Jonathan withdrew his hand. He gestured toward the waitress for another round.

“So when are you heading back to the States?” Laurel asked casually.

“Well, tomorrow actually.”

“Tomorrow! Doesn’t give us much time to get to know each other, huh?” She watched him, and could almost see the wheels spinning in his head as he calculated his ticket times and weighed the risks and possibilities. He looked at his watch. It was already near midnight.

He had taken off his coat and suit jacket, and now unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. The tie had probably come off after he’d closed the deal with the Germans. She noted the fine linen of his shirt and the gold cufflinks at his sleeves. As he opened the shirt a little she couldn’t help but admire his thick neck, not muscle-bound, but strong and masculine. She liked a big man—someone who could give her a good fight when she wrestled him, but who would always win.

She felt her pussy moisten and tingle as he smiled again, fine, square white teeth against tan skin. When he smiled his face creased up, smile lines at the corners of his eyes and his mouth. He looked like a man who smiled often.

She licked her lips, her eyes on his, waiting. Either he’d invite her up to his room now or he’d stand up, say how tired he was and how he hoped they’d meet again soon. She found she was eagerly hoping for the former.

“Good evening. Dylan, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Hi.” The stools on either side of Dylan were occupied. He controlled a sudden urge to push one of the occupants off their stool so Tomas might sit down.

Instead Tomas leaned down, saying softly to the man on his right, “Martin, would you mind terribly giving me your seat for a moment?”

“Oh, no sir! Not at all.” A bare-chested heavyset man with multiple piercings on his face and tattoos over much of his body stood up abruptly. Dylan almost expected him to bow toward Tomas. What was it about this guy that made everyone, including himself, want to worship him?

Tomas slid gracefully onto the stool next to him as Dylan tried to force himself to a calm he didn’t feel. When Tomas spoke, his voice was gentle. “What happened last week, Dylan? A moment you were there, then you were gone.”

For a moment Dylan savored Tomas’ elegant British accent before he forced himself to acknowledge the words. “I know. I don’t know. Uh, that is, I mean, I had to go. I’m sorry.” he laughed ruefully, aware he sounded like a total idiot. “I apologize. Peter said you were upset. He said I was very rude to have left like that.”

“Peter said that? No, no. Peter was mistaken. I was just surprised, is all. You had seemed, if you don’t mind my saying so, rather intrigued. Even,” he added as he put his hand over Dylan’s, “enthralled.”

Dylan held his breath, resisting his urge to put his other hand over Tomas’ to keep it there a little longer. He bit back a sigh as Tomas removed his hand. He was watching Dylan, waiting for a response. “I—I was intrigued. That was quite a display on the rack. I’m a student of history, actually. I recognize that rack as being an excellent replica of the ones used during the Inquisition. Surely it’s no coincidence—your clever pseudonym and that torture device?”
“A student of history? Formal or casual?”

“Well, formal. That is, I’m a professor of European history and I’m working on my PhD in medieval studies at NYU.”

“Impressive,” Tomas smiled and Dylan felt a warmth spread through him at the man’s approval. He wanted to ask what Tomas did when he wasn’t dominating slave boys at underground clubs, but he didn’t quite dare.

Instead he said, “So the rack? Is it yours?”

“No, no. It belongs to the club. Stanley Richards, the owner, he supplied all the equipment you see around us.” Tomas waved toward the room, which housed a number of whipping chairs, several St. Andrew’s Crosses, as well as an old-fashioned pillory and a few whipping posts. “But I’ll tell you a secret.” He leaned closer and Dylan could smell his scent—a hint of vanilla blended with cardamom and musk Dylan wanted to taste. “That’s how I picked my name for the club. The rack reminded me, as it did you, of the Spanish Inquisition.”

“Are you a student of history as well?” Dylan asked.

“You could say that,” Tomas said airily.

When he didn’t elaborate, Dylan tried, “So what makes you use a pseudonym at all? Is that common practice at these places? I mean, I’m not all that familiar with the club scene, but usually guys just tack the word ‘master’ or ‘slave’ to their first name and that’s that. If you don’t mind my asking, why the big mystery?”

Tomas smiled. “Well, first there’s the obvious answer, of course. I have my reasons for keeping my identity secret. But beyond that is something more essential, more basic to the scene. Public scenes are very different from a private D/s relationship. Here so much of what matters is the ambiance, the atmosphere during the few minutes one has to create an experience. It’s theater, in a way, though the players and what they feel are real.

“My goal as a Dom is to create a sensuous, edgy environment, one where the sub can submerge himself, lose himself, if you will, in the intensity of the moment. Part of the thrill is submitting to someone who could be anyone. I become their ultimate fantasy because they can assign whatever qualities they wish to the enigmatic stranger in the leather mask.”

Dylan was quiet a moment. Had he himself succumbed Tomas’ creation? Was his crush on the masked persona, not the man behind it? He knew nothing of the real man, not even his name. On an impulse he asked, “What’s your name? Your real name?”

Tomas’s smile was sardonic as he slowly shook his head. “Come now, Dylan. That would be telling.” Dylan didn’t respond. He hadn’t really expected the man to share with him what he had told no one else.  Tomas went on, “What’s in a name, after all? People come to these clubs to find fantasy—to play dark dangerous games they might not have the courage to explore on their own.” He turned his gaze fully on Dylan, who couldn’t seem to look away.

“Why are you here, Dylan? Why did you come?”

“I—uh, a friend gave me his invitation at the last minute.”

“So you were just curious? No personal interest in D/s?”

Dylan felt himself coloring as he stammered, “Well, no. That is, yes. I mean, I’m sexually submissive, to the right lover. I don’t really go in for these public scenes, if you’ll pardon my bluntness.”

“And yet here you sit, a second time. What made you come back? Did your friend have another invitation just lying around?” Dylan looked down at the bar, recalling how he’d virtually begged Jordan to get him a second invitation.

Summoning his courage, Dylan looked back at Tomas. “You. I came back because of you.”

“Yes. I know you did. In a sense you already belong to me, don’t you?” His voice was quiet, his assurance absolute. Dylan found it difficult to breathe. He glanced toward the exit and Tomas, reading his mind, said, “You will not leave. You will not run this time, Dylan. You will stay and explore the reasons you’re really here.” Dylan nodded slowly as he felt himself slip more firmly under this man’s charismatic spell.

Tomas put his hand on Dylan’s thigh. A thousand tiny sparks of desire ignited in his groin as Tomas stared pointedly at his crotch, a slow smile spreading over his face. “I was watching you, Dylan, when James was on the rack. You wanted to be there. You needed to be there. You felt each stroke of the lash, each caress to his cock and balls. You’ve thought of little else since that night, am I right?”

“Please, I—” Dylan said weakly, trying to refute what he knew was true.

“Stop,” Tomas commanded. “Don’t waste my time or yours with denial. We both know what’s in your heart.” His hand slid up Dylan’s leg to the bulging mound at his center. Dylan felt dizzy as the large hand covered his crotch, squeezing gently.

The door opened and Hilda Ferris squinted at her visitor. “Aye?”

“Mrs. Ferris. I was wondering if I could have a word?”

“Whorra about?” Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“May I come in?”

The Ferris woman opened the door wider, allowing Grace to enter. The stench of unwashed bodies in the closeness of the small room nearly knocked Grace off her feet. She quelled the need to put her handkerchief to her nose. Numerous pairs of eyes stared at her from different positions around the hearth. Dirty faces and ragged clothes adorned thin limbs of children of indiscernible ages. Opening the bag she brought, Grace showed the children the oranges within. With a smile, she gave the bag to the child closest and turned her attention to Mrs. Ferris. “I’ve come about your two eldest daughters.”

“Oh? They done summick?”

“No, nothing, I assure you.” Grace quickly appeased her. “I would like them to come work in the kitchen at Woodruff House. Only, I cannot pay them a wage, but they will have food, clothing, shoes and board. Also, I will send you a basket of food each week.”

Mrs. Ferris scowled. “No money?”

“No, sorry.”

A child sidled up with orange juice slicing dirty streaks down his chin. “Can I have the bed ter meself then, Ma?”

The child received a clip behind the ear for his troubles. “No, yer bloody can’t! Now, go git Alma an’ Minnie.”

Presently, the two girls came in grumbling about cold fingers and frozen toes from collecting water from the well down the lane. Their mother quickly told them the news of their employment. Astonished, both girls looked at Grace with wide eyes glowing from pale faces.

“You will be treated well,” Grace told them, hoping they would not become hysterical in denial. With relief, she saw the girls smile and turn to each other in excitement, before quickly dashing off to gather what few possessions they had.

Grace stepped outside and appreciatively breathed in. The crisp fresh air was like nectar to bees, intoxicating. The three women opposite looked at her and she smiled. Allowing the girls to say goodbye to their family, she went up to the old dogcart and replaced the empty bag under the seat. The ride home would be tight, for the dogcart really only held two people, but the girls were slight and she was sure they would fit.

After a final wave, the girls ran up the lane and stood behind the cart waiting, for Grace to move on.

“Oh no, girls. You shan’t walk behind. Come and sit here beside me. There’s room.”

Giggling, the girls scrambled onto the seat, and with a little squeal as the horse lurched forward, they turned to wave goodbye to the pit rows.

Once they had negotiated the track up onto the flat fields, Grace relaxed and turned to the sisters. “So, how old are you both, and who’s who?”

“I’m Alma, and I’m fifteen.” The girl at the end of the seat spoke up first.

“And I’m Minnie. I was fourteen last week,” the other added shyly.

“Well, I hope you both enjoy being at Woodruff House.”

“Oh, we will, Miss Woodruff. Anything is better than home.” Alma nodded wisely. “Or working on the slag heaps.”

Grace hid a grin. She relaxed and gently flapped the reins. A sudden wrench, and a loud crack sent the dogcart sideways. They screamed as one side of the cart hit the ground with a teeth-shattering thump. Grace found the breath knocked from her as both girls landed on her. One wheel rolled some feet away and came to rest on the grass. Frightened, the horse shied and tried to bolt, dragging the broken cart along the track. The girls screamed again and hung onto the seat. The hard, wet ground brushed Grace’s cheek as they were hauled along. One-handed, Grace pulled on the reins to steady the horse, while she also tried to hang on. Gradually, they jolted to a stop wedged in a muddy ditch by the side of the road.

As their senses cleared, they heard shouting and running behind them. Gingerly, Grace glanced back, trying not to move in case the horse bolted again. A man ran towards them.

The girls were above her, gripping the seat for dear life, their eyes wide in pale faces.

Moving to sit up caused pain to shoot up her arm from her wrist. “Girls, are you all right?” she croaked.

“Yes, Miss Woodruff,” Alma mumbled, leaning up away from her sister, who was squashed between them.

In a scatter of stones, George Henry Walters skidded to a halt beside the lopsided dogcart and knelt down beside Grace. “Is anyone hurt?”

“No, I don’t think so, Mr. Walters,” Grace mumbled, easing her shoulder from where it was jabbed hard into the ground.

“Can you help me out, Mr. Walters?” Alma asked.

“Right, lass.” George Henry lifted Alma from the cart while the horse rolled its eyes in terror. “Now you, young Minnie,” he instructed, as Alma stood shaking by the roadside. When both girls were free of the cart, he moved around to Grace.

He took the reins from her stiff fingers, tied them to the dogcart’s front rail, and then gently put his hands under Grace and lifted her bodily.

The pain from her wrist made her cry out as George Henry adjusted her weight in his arms. “Where do you hurt, Miss Woodruff?”

“My wrist,” Grace whispered, cradling it against her chest. She glanced up and found herself staring into his deep green eyes. At close range, she noted the green was darker around the iris. Fine crinkles creased the corners of his eyes, indicating he either smiled or squinted a lot. He returned her stare boldly, and she was shocked when her stomach tightened.

“Can you stand?”

She nodded, acutely aware of his strong arms holding her, supporting her against his broad chest. He smelt of soap, and his hair was damp. She had an insane urge to run her fingers through it. He gently stood her upright and she hated the break of contact. “Thank you.”

He took out a folded handkerchief from his trouser pocket and dabbed it gently against her cheek. “A few scratches,” he murmured.

Breathless at his feather-like touch, she willed herself to stand still and not give in to the weakness of her wobbly legs.

“Girls come stand by Miss Woodruff,” he ordered, before going to give the horse the once over. Satisfied the horse had come to no harm, he un-harnessed it from the shattered cart. “Can this horse be ridden?”

Her mind was in a whirl and her heart thumped like a drum. Something primal and intense awoke deep inside. Her senses were attuned to his every movement, his every word. “Y…yes. Apples can be ridden.”

“Right then,” he swung himself up onto Apple’s back, “I’ll go on to Woodruff House and let them know.”

Grace blinked, desperate to clear her head and summon her dignity. Why on earth had she reacted to him holding her? He of all people! He made it plain he didn’t like her, had been barely civil to her on the few times they met. Confused and a little scared by her fascination of him, she directed her feelings into anger, an emotion she knew very well and one she felt safe using. “You expect us to stay out here in the open and wait?”

“What do you suggest then?”

“The girls and I can walk to Woodruff House. Thank you for your help.” She dismissed him in a brusque tone.

Grace waited for him to dismount and then nodding to the girls to retrieve their belongings, she walked past him with her head held high and took the horse’s bridle with her good hand.

“Alma, why do you an’ Minnie go to Woodruff House?” He forestalled them, ignoring Grace.

“To work, Mr. Walters. Got set on t’day.”

Grace turned back. “Come Alma, Minnie.” She pinned George Henry with a frosty stare. “Good day, Mr. Walters, and thank you again.” She inclined her head in a way that would have made Heather proud.

“I’ll take the horse for you, so you don’t hurt your wrist anymore.” He marched up and grasped the bridle. Without waiting for them, he made for her home.

They walked in silence for half a mile. The throbbing ache in her wrist made Grace grit her teeth with every step. The girls’ excitement of an hour before had dwindled. Grace looked at their pale faces and felt sorry for them. No doubt, their thoughts had turned to what lay ahead.

“End of the line.”

Jerry opened his eyes and yawned.  He hadn’t expected to fall asleep, but the cozy, warm interior of the car and the hypnotizing effect of the snow on the road lulled him to slummberland.  “North Platte?”

Robert nodded, a strand of dark brown hair falling into his eyes.  “Every hotel I’ve seen has a ‘no vacancy’ light on.”

They drove on in silence.  Jerry scanned the hotel signs looking for something that promised a vacancy.  He’d talked Robert into heading out into the storm.  “Hey…down the way on the right.”  He couldn’t read the word, but all the ‘no vacancy’ signs had been red.  “It’s green not red…maybe they still have a room.”

Snow crunched beneath the car’s tires.  The temperature must have fallen a good twenty or more degrees since they’d left.  Jerry prayed there would be a room.  Sleeping in a car in freezing temperatures would put a real damper on the weekend’s festivities.

Gradually, the building came into view.  With a nearly full parking lot of snow covered vehicles an older hotel still proclaimed ‘vacancy’ on its signage.  “We just may be in luck, ol’ boy.”

“I hope so.  I’m damn tired.”  Robert pulled into a parking space.

Together, they pulled their bags out of the trunk and trudged toward the main doors, the wind blasting icy particles at them.  Jerry was six times a fool to convince his roommate to travel in such adverse conditions.  What had he been thinking?

He shook his head.  The answer to his rhetorical question come from his third leg– the head with the smallest brain did the thinking for him.  For over two years he’d kept his distance from the Robert the Brainiac…but lately, well, lately there seemed a subtle shift in Robert’s attitude.