I woke up in an unfamiliar bed. The white linens smelled fresh like a hotel, the pillows fluffy and plentiful. Through the huge window beside me, I recognized the signature neighborhood of SoHo. Wow, who put me up in such a fancy hotel?
My memory flooded back along with a splitting headache. I remembered exactly who put me up.
As I sat up, I found myself in the same LBD and stockings as last night. My panties felt unwrinkled and dry. It would be foolish to think Augustine would take advantage of me in an inebriated state. Hell, he would barely take advantage of me when I begged him. Cringing over both memories, pulled up my hair, stripped myself of the wretched nylons, and left the room.
When I stumbled out of the bedroom and into a hallway, my confusion worsened. To my right, the hall extended a great length; two doors in line with the one I just walked through, and another at the very end. To my left, bright light poured. Tall windows with squared mullions and arched tops showed how old the building must have been. As I walked toward them, my eyes took in every inch of the space. The window's black frames matched the dark, painted wood of a floating stairwell with glass handrails. Hardwood floors added warmth to the otherwise white aesthetic.
I walked out of the hallway and into an open living, dining, and kitchen area. At the end of the dining table sat Augustine.
This was obviously not a hotel, but rather the infamous SoHo loft Mildred told me about months before. I had imagined it to be much smaller in my mind—I wasn't sure why.
I padded over the hardwood floors toward the table. Augustine lifted his gaze from his phone and spotted me. "Good morning, Ms. Neilson," he greeted me.
"Good morning."
He appraised me, the hint of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. "Care for some coffee?" He gestured to the chair beside him.
"Sure." I pulled the chair over and sat, hoping to maintain as much distance from him as possible and to hide the lingering scent of alcohol seeping from my pores. My hands shook as I poured the coffee from the French press into my cup.
"Cream?" he asked. "Or, do you prefer your coffee like your recollection of last night? Black."
I rolled my eyes. "My recollection is just fine, thank you. I believe it's you who wants clarification."
He sat his phone to the side and peered at me—the kind of attention I rarely received from him while clothed. "You made quite the claim last night."
I blew the steam from my mug to hide my smile. "It wasn't a claim," I corrected him, "British bitch."
The pregnant silence that followed made me look his way. His glare was icy. He leaned his elbows onto the table, and in the warning tone of a father, said, "Care to say that again?"
"You heard me," I took a welcomed sip of my coffee, letting him stew. He did just that. "This is the SoHo loft, right?"
He maintained his scowl. "Yes."
"Mildred told me you had this place. I guess I expected it to only be for you."
"The children all have rooms. As will you. If you manage to maintain your employment," he threatened.
"I always hated this neighborhood. It felt like a slap in the face to anyone making a teacher's wage. But so did most of the city," I started to explain just to drive him crazy. "When I lived here, teaching didn't pay enough to actually live in the city, so I got a second job working at this little club called Risqué." I paused and looked at him over my mug, waiting for him to expose himself. "I'm so close with the staff, I still fill in on occasion. Which is why I was there Friday night."
"Friday?" he asked with an anxious tone.
"Yes. You know, when you had Ms. D tie you down and whip you until you came."
His practiced, stone façade faltered for just a second. "You saw . . . ?"
"Everything?" I finished for him. "Sure did."
As he continued to leer, I stared him down, letting him know it was I who had the upper hand. He leaned back a few inches, looking away with a chuckle as he shook his head. His thumb rubbed against his forefinger—the only visual cue of his nervousness. He both loved and hated when I outwitted him. How had I not figured him out sooner?
"You called me a switch," he finally said.
"I did."
"How do you know I'm not simply a masochist?" he asked.
"Because a masochist doesn't fuck like you do," I said confidently.
His smirk confirmed my claim.
"You're obviously confident, domineering, manipulative. But no dominant pays someone to collar them and call them a bitch." Find you a man who does both, as the youths say. His smile widened. "I'll admit you're a hard read. But apparently, so am I."
"Apparently so," he repeated with an agreeing growl.
"I blame myself," I told him. "We had sex before we had time to communicate what we wanted. We were both holding back, which is most likely why you—as you so kindly put it—didn't feel the need to do it again."
He chuckled again. "I suppose."
He looked away with a smile, the sun shining behind him made his eyes look green rather than the true, dark hazel. The smile curving his lips made me lick my own, but my curiosity still tugged at my mind. "How long have you been into the lifestyle?" I asked him.
"Two years. A bit less, perhaps," he answered. "Not as experienced as you, I'm sure, but I still know what I like."
I sat down my coffee. "And what would that be?"
He leaned his elbow onto the table, subconsciously getting as close to me as possible. "I believe you have me pegged, Ms. Neilson," he admitted. My mind went to a different place than he intended. "Impact play, sensation play, orgasm control, bondage . . . I like it rough and I like it cruel, but I don't like it to leave permanent damage," he explained. "Psychologically, being dominant is in my nature. Bending people to my will is a pleasure for me in both business and the bedroom, but . . . I tire of always being in control."
"You enjoy forced submission," I said, not asked.
"Very much so," he agreed. "Even from the bottom, I have a habit of attempting to top—but only because I like to protest. Often. And, more so, to be punished for that protest."
"You're a brat?" I asked with a chuckle. "I would expect more class from a man like you."
"We all have our vices, Ms. Nielson," he said with a playful smile. "And you?"
I smiled. "When I first dipped my toe into scenes, I fell into a dominant role," I started to explain. "I became a teacher because I'm a natural nurturer—but to me, that means being a disciplinarian when needed. Giving someone exactly what they need, watching them come harder than they ever have in their life . . . That got me off. But then I made the mistake of letting a dom beat me into submission." Thinking about it made me hot. "I didn't realize how much I enjoyed being bound, choked, beat and humiliated . . . I didn't realize how much I wanted someone to hurt me," I admitted with unabashed truth.
The smile on Augustine's lips showed me he felt the same. "What an interesting situation we find ourselves in."
I smiled at him over my coffee. "Interesting indeed."
His eyes drifted over me as if he were seeing me for the first time. The little grin he had as he moistened his lips felt like a massive compliment. "I'd love to show you something. If that's alright."
I looked at him curiously, trying to hide my smile. I knew what he was going to show me. What I didn't know was whether I'd be able to walk away after I saw it.
He led me across the room past the bedroom I woke up in and down the long, white hall. We passed the three doors before arriving at the door at the end of the hall. He pulled a key from the pocket of his trousers and unlocked it. Inside was another hall—though much shorter—that opened into a bedroom.
The modern, black sheets looked stark against a white, tufted headboard that matched the panels hung along the walls. Sound dampening. A more aesthetic version of what we used in the private rooms of the club. Along the baseboard of the bed was a slotted space, metallic hooks in a line sent a warm rush through my core. The widower was about to get me into some serious trouble.
When we rounded the corner, a door was propped open to an aesthetically consistent white bathroom. Light gleamed from the shining marble tile and glass shower enclosure, but what quickly gained my attention was the next door.
A large, walk-in closet with a central dresser sat nearly empty except for the meticulous line of suit separates and shoes. When he unlocked one of the drawers and pulled it out, my mood lifted once more. Inside, leather bondage sets laid perfectly as if they were displayed works of art. In drawer after drawer, was more leather, chains, clasps, and fasteners of various uses, followed by toys as diverse as their leather counterparts.
As I appraised his collection, he opened another door at the end of the room. It swung open to reveal a lounge. Black, velvety, tufted fabric covered the walls, a table, and a couch. Metal bars crossed along the top of the room like an elaborate sculpture. Multiple surfaces for fucking, playing, and punishing, all draped in warm, dim lighting.
I felt myself salivate.
"Like what you see?" he asked in a sexy tone.
I looked up at him and tried to hide my true feelings. "I can't say I'm impressed," I mused, "but it's a good start."
"You don't prefer leather, I assume?"
"From a bondage standpoint, I find it lazy, but it gets the job done. As punishment, on the other hand . . . it's one of my favorites." Though he tried, he couldn't hide the throbbing of his erection straining against the thigh of his trousers. "Did you show me this to brag?" I asked. "Or was it to beg?"
My eyes darted back to him with my excitement. He stepped closer to me. "I'd rather enjoy a redo of our initial tryst." He brushed my hair from my face and let his hands trail down to linger at my neck. "If you're interested."
My breath became labored as I looked up at him. "I am."
_____
A/N: Thank you for reading! Please be sure to vote, comment, and add to your library if you want more!