Chapter 4
The Arts District is on the eastern edge of downtown, which means that it takes almost a full year for my car to deliver me to the building I saw through the telescope’s eyepiece.
I don’t use the gridlock time on the 5 to comb through Hank’s online footprint again. I’ve already memorized the scant details that exist.
He’s a New York native.
He’s not much for social media.
He’s better looking in person.
When I finally arrive, the gallery door is unlocked. The lights are off, so I lock it behind me and then use my phone to illuminate my path towards the back, where I find a spiral staircase.
The shoes will have to come off, which is annoying. I like them. And I need the extra inches they add if I don’t want to injure my neck looking up at him. Tall men are hot, but inconvenient.
At the top of the stairs, another open door. Beyond it, a wide-open loft, dimly lit by scattered candles. A heavy looking antique table next to the entrance holds a little dish of keys—complete with a keychain that says “Chevy Truck”—and a full glass of wine. I take the wine and replace it with my clutch.
Towards the rear of the space, a massive canopy bed with carved details grabs my attention. Furniture’s not my specialty, but I know enough to get by. This thing’s at least a few hundred years old and probably worth as much a sports car. The fact that he owns this and not a sports car lends more credence to my new theory that he isn’t dumb.
Actually, presenting one face to the world and another at home is more my style.
I file this away and glance over at the sitting area. Hank is there, watching me over his own glass of wine.
I sip mine, and note that it’s the exact same vintage as the one being served across town at the gala. I’m not sure what to make of that except that I liked it then and I like it now. I like the cold heat of his eyes on me, too, and I want more. My dress has a side zip, so I undo it and let it fall before stepping back into my heels.
He appraises me like I’m an exhibit in his gallery.
I wait.
Finally, he stands and walks towards me as I shiver, naked except for a white lace thong.
He circles me, as though memorizing every detail. Meanwhile, I’m trying to memorize every detail of his loft. I don’t see the painting anywhere. If it’s downstairs, this may be easier than I’d originally thought. Since I’d been able to walk right in, that means the alarm hasn’t been armed.
I’ll enjoy a round or two in Hank’s deliciously decadent bed and then slip out with the painting inside the Kroger bag I’ve got waiting in my clutch.
Then he spanks me, and all thoughts of anything else go out of my head.
The sharp crack is as startling as it’s arousing. I can feel the heat rising where his hand was, probably in the shape of it as well. I’m expecting a second, but it doesn’t come. He’s still and quiet behind me, studying his work.
I don’t know what to make of it. If he’s trying to throw me off-guard, its working. If he thinks I’m here to kink with him, he’s wrong.
Of course I know that this is something that goes on in many powerful men’s bedrooms, but it goes on with women who are there for that sort of thing. I don’t go home with someone to be his therapy, or his girlfriend. And more often than not, when I’m done adoring them, they didn’t miss any of it.
There are places to go to find one-night stands who are into being spanked, and it isn’t usually the fundraisers at the Disney Concert Hall where I do my pickups.
After an interminable pause, Hank rounds me again. We look at each other, silent.
He holds out his hand, and takes me to his bed. I lay back on the silk duvet cover and watch him carefully undress. Each button receives as much care and attention as I pay to my house plants. I appreciate that. Just because you can afford to replace something doesn’t mean you should treat it poorly. And to a T, everyone in my past who’s ripped clothes in their haste to get them off has been equally hasty with my pleasure.
Once he’s naked, chiseled and hard in the flickering light, he takes my underwear off carefully over my heels. He studies me again for a moment before lowering his head and taking his time to make sure I’m ready for him.
Whatever it is that he’s done with his life before this moment, he’s apparently made lots of time to lick pussy. It’s overwhelmingly magnificent. I’d expected a few perfunctory swipes of his tongue, but instead I’m being exalted. His fingers dig into my thighs, opening them further. Each time I think I’m getting close to coming (rare enough as that is) he changes up what he’s doing. It never makes the pleasure less intense, only different, and staves me off.
I know this trick, I use it. And if he’s treating me with all the adulation I normally treat my marks with, that means I’ve got him. So I read him right after all. This man of few words, this man of ice, somehow got drawn in by the trap I’ve laid.
The spanking is all but a distant memory by the time he finally lines up and drives into me with a single, powerful thrust.
When I cry out, I don’t recognize the sound of my own voice. Usually it’s carefully modulated, even during sex, but this is primal. He stays there, in me, waiting for me to adjust to his size, but I don’t want to adjust. I want the sensation of his crown sliding slowly out before slamming back in. I want it slow and fast and I want it now.
I never get like this. It’s weird. But I’m not going to detract from the moment by overthinking things, I’m just going to squirm under him, seeking the base of his shaft against my kiss-swollen clit, until he gets the message.
Finally, finally, he moves. Slowly. If he were anyone else, I’d call it love-making. With him, I’ll call it torture.
“Faster,” I urge. My orgasm hovers just beyond reach. He slows further.
Torture.
“Patience, Crimson.” I don’t remember telling him my name. Very few people even know it. But as I open my mouth, he speeds up, finally driving me towards the release I’m craving. Then as I start to tighten around him, though, he slows again.
I don’t know how long this back and forth continues. Time is meaningless in this in-between space where I’m perpetually on the verge, raggedly calling out.
When he clamps his hand over my mouth, I first think it’s because I’m making too much noise. Then I realize my nose is covered too. He’s cutting off my breath. The panic is immediate but strangely doesn’t slow my arousal. Or maybe it’s that they have the same heart-pounding adrenaline-soaked effect. Regardless, I toss my head from side to side, trying and failing to shake him off long enough to get a gasp of oxygen.
He’s too strong.
I wonder if this is how it ends for me, the blackness at the corners of my vision creating a vignette that will close in until I don’t see anything at all.
I wonder if anyone will notice that I’m gone.
Then he smiles, and it’s kind, not cruel. He has dimples. I realize this is a game just as he reaches the end of his stroke and grinds against me. With that, I shatter as the quake inside me hits a 10 on the Richter scale. He releases his grip and as I’m sucking in breaths, I’m coming and coming and I can’t stop. All that exists is this feeling.
But maybe he is cruel, because then he reaches between us and does something with his fingers that sends a second convulsion on the heels of the last. It lasts so long I reach a place where it almost hurts.
When I eventually reach the end of the aftershocks, he slides out and lays beside me, fingers trailing slowly over my abdomen leaving shivery trails of cold behind them.
Maybe this is what people mean by a religious experience, because I definitely think I saw God there for a moment. The release of all that tension has me drifting off before I can even grab a glass of water.
I set my internal clock to wake me at 3 am, but it doesn’t matter. It’s only 2 when I’m woken by the metallic click of the handcuff around my left wrist.