Chapter Twenty-Six: Leaps and Bounds

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CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: LEAPS AND BOUNDS

Max felt charged, her whole body alert and alive. She’d never experienced a power surge like that outside of a boardroom before. Having that much control over a person was exhilarating. And it had been beyond rewarding working in tandem with the other women. It had been such a rush, all of them feeding off each other.

It was so weird. She wouldn’t have thought that she would like it. Hitting and hurting another person. Despite her assertive, sometimes aggressive, nature, she wasn’t a violent person. She’d only ever struck anyone out of self-defense—okay, maybe sometimes it was less self-defense as it was self-protection from offense. But it had always seemed justified in her mind. Coming from a place of righteousness and revenge.

But this.

This had been different.

This hadn’t been about righting a wrong or avenging some slight. This hadn’t been about violence—no matter what it’d looked like. This hadn’t been about causing pain—even though they had.

This had been about having a good time. About giving and receiving pleasure. About passion.

And, yes, about sex.

Max had been so turned on by it. Been so aroused by how turned on everyone else was by it. The way Cora’s dark eyes twinkled. The throaty chuckle that purred from Pip. The scent—sweet and so female—of Hallie’s excitement every time she’d come close.

And especially—despite his blustering protestations and exaggerated grumblings—the way Rand’s body had reacted to it all. The way he’d puffed out his body, bulging every muscle like some exotic bird on mating display. The way he’d arched into their touch, his body seeking contact, no matter if it were a stroke or a strike. The way he’d egged them on with teasing, taunting words, daring them ever onward.

It had been about pleasure. All of theirs. Together. Each feeding into the others, feeding off the others. Existing because the others existed.

It’d been, well, fun.

And she hadn’t been expecting that.

Was a little spun by it.

She wanted to talk about it with someone. Share it.

She wanted to share it with him. Her eye-opening partner-in-crime.

But she couldn’t find him anywhere.

At the end of the scene, she’d looked to the place where he’d been sitting. But, somewhere during the heated, heady play, the mysterious man had disappeared.

Max wondered where he’d gone.

Tentatively, still unsure of her way in the winding space, Max made her way through Donovan’s legendary playspace. It was so strange to walk its halls now.

Before she’d entered into Donovan’s, before this world had thrust its way into her life, she’d shrugged off the very idea of it. Wondered what the big deal was. Why people needed all the toys and trimmings. Why they couldn’t just be happy with sex as it was.

When she’d first walked Donovan’s halls, she’d stepped in with that mindset. Had looked at these people and thought it all a little much. Had scoffed off the appeal. She’d strutted in, completely confident that she’d known the full extent of pleasure. That she was knowledgeable. Liberated. Experienced.

And she had been.

She’d known passion and pleasure and the rush of heat. She’d enjoyed lovers and sex—knew herself to be worldly enough to know how she came and how to make her partners come. She’d had a good sex life then.

But now, after having gotten a good look at this world, she was beginning to understand. Just because sex—vanilla and in its basest form—was great, was fun, was fucking fantastic, didn’t mean that there weren’t other things that were just as great. That, added to that base form, made everything even better.

Max grinned and looked about the club, more than eager to explore this new world that beckoned and welcomed her.

“Max,” Kat greeted gleefully. Her best friend sounded a little winded from laughing as she, Rachel, and Reena hurried toward her. “You are just the woman we were looking for.”

Max bit her lip and hesitated at the roguishly giddy smiles all three women shared. Whatever those curious grins meant, it couldn’t be good.

But all Max could think to say when they grabbed her by both arms and led her through the hallways was “uhhh.”

Max instinctively dragged her feet and sputtered out unanswered questions, but they simply tugged her through the darkened maze. Her eyes widened as they approached the one-way mirrored room.

The room that had started it all.

And the huge hulking man standing tall and imposing in its doorway.

“Hey there, Red,” Rand said, now free and fully dressed again after their scene. He raised a cocky eyebrow at her and stood, his feet planted and his hands firm on his hips.

“One thing you should know about me,” he said when her best friend fickly shoved her at him. He loomed over Max while she instinctively cringed back before he grabbed her chin in his hand, pulling her closer. He grinned menacingly. “I always get even.”

Max swallowed with panic when he took hold of her elbow and all but threw her into the room. Stumbling, she turned around to face him, wondering exactly how a man like Rand got even.

However, to her utter confusion, Rand just chortled and shut the door in her face. Reaching for the doorknob, she tugged.

Locked.

Figured. Freakin’ figured.

For a long moment, she just stood there, slack-jawed, and stared at her own reflection in the mirrored door.

What the hell was going on?

And then she heard it.

A cough.

Max turned around.

And saw him. Sir.

Gagged.

And tied up.

To a chair.

Max blinked blankly as their eyes met, a frustrated fury blazing in the bound man’s briny eyes. He was seething, she could see that. Could see it in the hot slash of color across his severely chiseled cheeks. In the sharp, shallow breaths that heaved his chest. In the flex of each tensely held muscle now held captive by cuffs at his ankles, elbows, and wrists.

Even though he sat perfectly still, Max could recognize when the wildness inside him was too close to the surface. It was now.

“Uhhhh.”

What the hell was going on?

She walked up to him and tugged the gag out of his mouth. “What’s happening right now?” she asked him, rather demandingly for someone who, for all appearances, seemed to be in a position to know less than she did.

But, because she knew better—knew that this manipulative man knew everything that happened in his club—she tapped her toe in impatient expectation.

Flexing his jaw, he slanted her a rather wry look, his eyes flashing with as much dark amusement as frustration. “Rand felt it a shame that he was the only top to have volunteered for,” he paused for a moment before settling on, “service to the cause.” He turned to look down at himself and the cuffs holding him to the chair, then to the table of toys laid out next to him. “He decided to enact a draft policy.”

She really needed to have a chat with Rand about the finer points of consent.

Later.

For the moment, Max’s gaze followed the lawyer’s to the table and its array of implements. Laid out in meticulous fashion were everything from floggers to whips, from dildos to cock rings. There were several things that Max couldn’t even identify or begin to fathom why they were there, like an ornate Chinese fan and…was that a coatrack?

She did not want to know what someone could do with that.

“At any rate,” he bit out with a shrug that looked far more like a halted bid for freedom, “I suppose I’m reporting for duty.”

Whether he wanted to or not.

Max’s eye shifted upward to the security camera that sat unobtrusive but observing in the corner of the room. She bit her lip and met its red, blinking eye.

“We fixed the security problem,” he promised in a low tone she was sure was meant only for her. “Lock Stock fired the men involved and secured the feed so the only ones privy to it are Donovan’s and the president of the company. Peter is also making certain those men never bother you or anyone else ever again.”

You’re safe here.

He wouldn’t say it. Because the words didn’t mean anything unless she felt them. Unless she instinctively knew them to be true.

She shut her eyes, shutting out the camera’s unavoidable watch.

She was safe.

She did know that.

But not because of cameras or security or strike-back blackmail. Don’t get her wrong, it was nice—an added layer of protection.

But her safety came from not hiding anymore. From being completely and unabashedly transparent and honest. Anything that camera caught, anything it could show the world…Max could take it now. Today, she’d taken away its sting.

Openly acknowledged truth made for lousy extortion.

Max opened her eyes and peered at her reflection, proud and strong, mirrored back at her everywhere she looked.

Ironically, by exposing that part of her life, she’d protected herself. They couldn’t hurt her with it anymore. They couldn’t make her ashamed of something she didn’t—couldn’t bring herself to—regret.

She stared one second longer into the camera’s lens, letting herself get used to the weight of its gaze—silently daring it to do its worst—before she turned back to the trapped man before her.

It was tempting to leave him like that. To have her wily way with him helpless under her hands. To have this powerful man made weak before her. She was sure that they both would have enjoyed it immensely.

But today was about freedom.

“Let’s get you out of this.” She heaved a resigned sigh and knelt down to untie him.

She ignored the loud, hissing boos and the protesting pounds on the room’s walls. Her audience was unhappy.

Tough.

A part of her smiled as she reached for the cuffs’ buckles.

“You don’t have to do that,” he told her quietly and bent his head, his lips nearly touching her ear.

She turned to him, his stormy gaze hot with encouragement that bordered on challenge. He knew she’d enjoyed tonight. That she’d discovered something in herself. Something that, for her, he would suspend his own desires—his own inclinations and needs—in order to fulfill hers.

Max grinned.

It was a humbling gift from such a proud man.

One she hated to refuse.

———

She deftly undid all the cuffs without a word before she stood up to face him. He rolled his wrists and ankles, grateful to be free, but slightly disappointed. It may not have been the most comfortable position for him to be in, but a part of him wondered what it would have been like to be at Max’s mercy.

“Thank you.” His voice was calm even though his lips still frowned at the lost opportunity. He moved to lever himself up.

Max stopped him with a hand to his chest, halting him mid-motion. Giving him a gentle shove, she forced him back into the chair. “I said I’d untie you,” she told him, her voice clear and precise, almost businesslike. “I never said we were finished.”

He raised an eyebrow, his gaze igniting again at her tone. “What do you mean?” He was intrigued if a bit wary.

Max’s lips curled, excitement flashing in her eyes, and her body practically hummed with the sparking start of a scheme. He smiled. He couldn’t help it. Not when she looked like that, so excited, so eager. Oh yeah. This was how he liked her. How he wanted her. He never wanted her more than when she was raring for a fight. When she was squared off and ready to face him, no holds barred.

She narrowed her gaze as plans glittered in her dark eyes. “I want to make a deal with you.” She sauntered forward to stand just in front of him, her feet braced and her hands fisted on her hips. She moved to stand between his legs. He bit back a lusty moan when her legs forced his thighs apart, so solid and strong yet so fucking soft he wanted to grab her, wanted to hold and stroke and touch and take every inch of her body that she so recklessly pressed against him.

Instead, he leaned back, staring steadfastly into those brash, brown eyes and focused on her words.

A deal, huh? She wanted to play, did she?

That was his Max.

He nodded and steepled his fingers in front of him as that savage, pent-up part of him suddenly woke and prowled inside, responding to the similar spirit—that matching mix of reckless nerve and desire so great it bordered on greed—in her.

He settled back in his chair, aiming for the capable calm he wore like armor everyday at his desk, even though his heart pounded and his lust raced. “What kind of deal did you have in mind?” His tone was clipped and toneless, giving away nothing.

She spun on her heels, walking away from him. And, though he yearned to pull her back to him, pull her under him—where she belonged—he let her walk away, steeling himself in his seat. Holding fiercely to the cool civility their game required, he reminded himself that a good opponent never struck this early in play.

She smiled as if she saw it. Saw his struggle. And approved.

That shouldn’t have pleased him so much. He’d never much cared about others’ approval or acceptance before. But Max’s acceptance—her understanding of all that he was—was important, if only because it wasn’t easily won.

“You like to look.” She turned around slowly, letting her suit jacket slide down her shoulders. She grinned when his eyes instinctively traced the sweep of her shoulders before watching the cloth flutter down her lushly curved body to the floor.

Fighting to not match her satisfied smirk, he caught her slight shiver while his gaze travelled back up her body, stroking up the length of her legs, the curve of her hips, the dip of her waist, the fullness of her breasts.

His gaze stuck on her pale, vulnerable throat. She swallowed hard and waited until his burning eyes met hers again. “Wanna see more?” she asked, her voice a low, if a bit shaky, tease.

Hell yes.

He nodded, the movement slow and deliberate. A strained effort to move without leaping. To accept without taking. To let her set the pace. “Show me.”

Max’s expression brightened. “Uh-uh.” She shook her head. “You want a peek,” she said, unhooking the top hook of her underbust vest, causing the tight material to gape, “you’ll have to give me something in return.”

“I’m guessing it’ll cost me more than a piece of paper this time.” His eyes zeroed in on the flash of flesh she’d revealed, imagining more. He gripped the chair’s armrests, his hold a surer restraint than the cuffs had been. His fingers dug into the padded wood.

She walked closer, the sound of her stilettos clicking on the tile ringing in the room. She let another hook slip. “Favors,” she said simply, walking around him out of his line of sight. He should have turned. It made him feel too much like prey to have her stalk unseen behind him.

But he couldn’t let go of the chair. Not without grabbing her. Not without ending their game before it had even begun.

So he sat stiffly when she lay her hands on his shoulders and bent down to whisper in his ear, “I’ll take off one item of clothing for every favor you fulfill.”

The lawyer took a deep breath and considered her bargain, feeling the tilt of power shift.

Feeling their roles reverse.

It was a strange feeling. He wasn’t a man used to giving up power, to giving up control. But, like he’d told her, Max was worth the effort.

And, if he admitted it, there was something tempting about letting her take the reins. About seeing, given the chance and the choice, where she would go. What she would do. What she would take.

“Do you agree?” She came around to face him again, her cocky gaze assured. Almost. A flicker of worry flashed in her eyes, giving away how much she wanted this.

Odd as it felt, so did he.

“I have a stipulation.” He eyed her shrewdly. “I get to decide the item of clothing.” He’d make her deal, but he’d make sure it was a good one for him too.

She made a great show of considering it before nodding, like he knew she would. “Agreed.”

“So,” he asked, more than ready for their game, “what’s your first request?”

She stood back and smiled, so sure and smug that he really ought to have seen it coming. “Strip.”

READ CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

 

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The Deviant Nerd - The Paradox of Punishments

The Paradox of Punishments

The Deviant Nerd

Brought to you by Show Me, Sir, a feminist novel that explores one woman's journey into life, love, and... less than conventional longings

Question: Hey Pip!

So I’m not personally kinky, but I love to read those kinda light, fun BDSM stories. While it’s not something I would ever want to do in real life, I really like the idea of it. The fantasy of it, I guess, is enough for me. 

Which is fine. That’s not my question.

My question is, what’s the deal with punishments? In a lot of the stories I read, the characters are often crying and screaming and not seeming to have a whole lot of fun. It sounds painful and scary and is actually kinda a turnoff. Is that really what it’s like? ‘Cause, if it is, I get why Doms would get off on this, but does the sub get anything out of it?

 – Cringing Over Crying in Kink

———   

Pip: Hey Cringing,

My favorite advice expert, Dan Savage, has a great definition for kink: “BDSM is cops and robbers with your pants off for adults.”

I love that!

To no end.

Because it’s true.

It is the hardest thing for those on the outside to ever comprehend about kink.

That. It. Is. Fun.

That we enjoy doing this. That no matter the words we use, no matter what the scene may look like, it is the best, most enjoyable, most pleasurable, most ecstatic thing we can imagine doing. For most of us, given the choice between them, we’d rather play than have sex (We’d really rather both, but we’re greedy like that.).

Otherwise why the hell would we do it?

It doesn’t even sound fun. Being hit, hitting someone, burning and being burned, cutting, bondage, these are all things normal people avoid like the plague. A person doesn’t volunteer to have these things done. Doesn’t volunteer for torture and pain. No one does that!

Unless they’re into it. Unless it turns them on. Unless, given a very specific context that exists in a very specific time in a very specific place with very specific people under very specific conditions, this thing that we all instinctively, automatically, without exception avoid is turned into something else. Is spun on its head until it’s no longer anything like what it looks like.

The thing that irritates me—and most kinky readers like yourself—most about the vast majority of kink literature out there is that they lack this very subtle yet very key element. Kinksters call it “play” for a reason. It’s not supposed to be a punishment, even when we call it that. It isn’t supposed to be painful, even when it’s causing pain. It is as much about pleasure as giving and receiving oral sex is. It is as much about orgasms and arousal as foreplay. It is as much about mutual, shared satisfaction as sex.

If you’ve ever seen a real life scene involving punishment, if you watched it from setup to end, you’d know that nothing happening during it wasn’t asked for and wasn’t thoroughly enjoyed by both parties. I know this couple who does age play, where she plays the bratty child-sub who  transgresses in order to get—to guarantee—punishment. It’s orchestrated. Obviously. Rather ridiculously, to the outside observer, to be honest. But the punishment is always—ALWAYS—preceded by her purposefully breaking the rules. She’s the one who instigates the punishment. She is—for all intents and purposes—asking for it. And loves every second of it while it’s happening. Can’t wait until the next time she’ll be punished.

One of the most well known—if most forgotten—rules of BDSM is that the bottom rules. The bottom holds all the power in the relationship, no matter what it may look like to someone on the outside looking in. Bottoms decide who they play with. They define how far scenes go, where the limits lie. They call the start and stop of every scene. They decide what a top is allowed to do. And a top, if they ever want to play within the community ever again, must abide by that.

Bottoms hold all the power. Especially when it looks like they don’t.

This also means they hold a heavy amount of responsibility. If they set limits or demands, they have to stick to them. They have to put themselves in situations where, if trouble happens, they have the means to deal with it. Whether that means only playing with people they trust and know well or playing only in public with other members and—more importantly—moderators present to chaperone. It means that they have to use safewords or be able to speak up when things are going sideways. 

They have to maintain control, as much—if not more so—than tops. Because whether a scene goes well or wrong is always due to more than one person. We call each other “play partners” for a reason, because both bottoms and tops take part in everything that happen within that scene. In kink, you really only get out of it what you put into it.

 – Pip, Your Resident Deviant Nerd

* If you have a sex, kink, love, or life question for The Deviant Nerd, email Pip at PipJones.DeviantNerd@gmail.com. 

And read more about Pip’s story in Brought to You By.

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Chapter Twenty-Five: Look Before

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CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: LOOK BEFORE

Even though Max had dragged herself through the motions of getting ready earlier in the evening, exhausted from Hallie’s Grand Opening, she felt immediately awake and eager when she looked up at Donovan’s, its glass doors gleaming as they welcomed. Her hand tightened on the lawyer’s elbow, her other tucked into the crook of his arm.

“Are you ready?” he asked as they walked past security, who now knew both of them on sight.

“Of course.” Her spine stiffened and she tried to still her shaking knees as they made their way into the club. She didn’t know why she was nervous. This was far from her first time here, but it felt like the first time she was really entering it. Really meeting it as one of its own. As its equal. Its match.

“Enjoy yourself,” he whispered in her ear, his breath tickling her skin. “You’re beautiful. You’re a success. And this is as much a party for you as it is for Hallie. You deserve this.”

With Bits ‘n’ Pieces’s street-wide opening a smashing success—if the praising press and the earlier tallied sales were any indicator—Max knew they all deserved a party. A congratulatory celebration. Kat, Pip, and some of the other volunteers had thrown it all together along with Hallie and Rachel.

Max marveled at their efforts, seeing most of the women present visibly wearing various pieces of Hallie’s creations in her honor, transforming lingerie into fine, formal wear. Lace balconette bras were paired with long flowing, high-waisted ballroom skirts. Silky camisoles were worn under perfectly tailored suit coats. Long, satiny slips were worn with the same grace and elegance as the gowns that would have normally hidden them from view.

Max looked at her escort, imagining the picture they presented together. As a special gift, Hallie had designed special, one-of-a-kind ensembles for Max and the civic-minded counselor. The fine, black linen, shot through with clever pinstripe accents of electric, silky blue, was cut in clean, efficient lines, playing on the model of a business suit. But intimate peeks of silk, leather, and gleaming steel lay stealthily within the deceptively corporate clothes, beautifully designed to please the eye even while they toed a teasing line with indecency. Lending the improper a professionalism Max would never have equated with kink wear.

Sent to their offices in pretty, periwinkle Bits ‘n’ Pieces boxes along with the invitations to the grand opening gala being held at Donovan’s tonight, they’d arrived with a personal thank you for each of them as well.

"We haven’t known each other long," Hallie had written to Max, "but you’ve meant more to me than most of the people in my life. I know I can never thank you, but I hope that tonight can be my start."

Max kept that thought in mind as her date swept her into the crowd. She was amazed by how many people recognized her. Many of the faces were unknown or at least still unfamiliar to her, but they’d already accepted her as one of their own. It helped that her companion seemed to know everyone by name, easing introductions and navigating the crowd.

He steered them toward the back area and through the halls, leading her with a gentle hand on the small of her back toward the playspace. The minute they entered the area, they were startled by uproarious laughter.

Max blinked, a little bewildered. Hallie, Cora, and Pip danced giddily around the room, bending low and giggling while they spun. Max watched with delight as the women practically skipped around a bent form nestled in the center, their gleeful hands reaching out to slap, tickle, and pinch.

Max narrowed her gaze on the writhing mass in the middle of the scene, hearing grunts and curses with every touch. “Is that Rand?” She blinked, mystified at the sight. The hard man did not seem the type to willingly be on the receiving end.

“It appears so.” Her escort smirked. “Kat was very proud that she’d talked Rand, who rarely bottoms, into doing so for the gala if she could raise at least six hundred dollars to go to renovations and start-up costs. Sponsored spanking, I believe she called it.” His grin widened. “Many of us chipped in, if just to see that rare occurrence happen. She ended up raising just under eight hundred dollars.”

“She’d asked you first, hadn’t she?” Max said, knowing her friend very well.

“It’s terribly unfortunate that I had other plans for tonight,” he replied, letting his hand slide down to caress her ass, “isn’t it?”

Max gave him her own grinning glance. “If I’d known it was for charity,” she said innocently, “I would have given you up.” With a low chuckle at the pout on his face, she added, “Anything for a good cause. Sir.”

Hallie looked up when she heard them laugh. “Max!” She came rushing forward before scooping Max in a fierce embrace. Pushing her an arms-length away, Hallie took a good look at the other woman. “You look beautiful, exactly how I knew you would!”

“It’s stunning.” Max looked down at herself, knowing she looked every inch the sexy corporate bitch, the epitome of downtown domination. A ball-busting, ass-kicking queen in full glory. Straightening her spine, Max found herself preening a bit. “Thank you so much. I love it.”

“After what you did for me,” Hallie said with a shake of her head, “you deserve it.” With a wicked waggle of her brows, she added, “And, in that outfit, you know what else you deserve?” Pulling on Max’s hand, she drew her deeper into the room. And toward the man bent on the floor. “Your very own submissive slave boy.”

Excuse me?

Max gaped and dug in her feet. She couldn’t do that. Not here. Not now. She’d never topped anyone before. Never Dommed, or whatever. She wouldn’t even know where to start. No, she shook her head, she couldn’t do that.

“What’s the matter, Red?” Rand taunted from the floor, looking up at her from his bound position, tied to the turquoise velvet and maple spank stool. “No fun hitting a man when it’s not a sucker punch?”

Sucker punch?!

“You deserved that slap and you know it,” Max snapped.

“Do it again!” she heard Kat shout from the sidelines. Max turned to see Kat, Peter, Reena, and Rachel sitting on the floor, watching and cheering.

Max smiled when she saw the lawyer settle cross-legged on the floor next to them. He nodded encouragingly.

“Now, now, no pressure.” Rand tutted, challenge and mischief sparking in his glittering eyes. “She’s just afraid that she’s not woman enough to top a man like me.”

What did he just say?

Max balked at the daring man. She arched a brow at him. “Not woman enough for a man like you?” Did he know who he was talking to?

“And she hits like a girl,” Rand added.

That was it!

She did not get insulted by half-dressed men tied to furniture.

Rearing her hand back, she smacked him in the ass. Hard. The sound thundered in her ears and seemed to echo within the space of her mind. She brought her other hand up to her mouth and stared at his leather-covered ass, imagining the harsh, red handprint she’d left on his flesh like fingerprints at a crime scene.

Oh my God.

She could feel the tremor of the strike rippling through her senses, her hand throbbing to a strange pulse that seemed to tick in time to her racing heart.

Oh God.

What had she done?

“Damn, girl.” Rand hissed, the muscles in his ass wriggling from the sting. “You just going to leave it there? One good hit before you quit?” He raised his head cockily. “Or do you have more in you?”

Max laughed. He wanted more?

She could hear the crowd behind her crow, urging her on. She gave one quiet peek at the enigmatic man watching intently from the floor, curious on his take. He gave her a knowing look, his aquatic eyes churning with a strange mix of pride and heat in his fiercely hewn face.

You’re a pleasure to look at.

Well, then she’d just have to give him a show, wouldn’t she?

Turning to face the other women, she laughed and dove right in.

———

He sat back and grinned at Max. The sadistic gleam in her beautiful, brown eyes and the twisted curve of those luscious lips were glorious.

She, along with the others, had been touching and teasing, hitting and heating Rand for near twenty minutes already. He’d loved watching Max, under the instruction of Rand and the other women, explore each new touch. The difference between an open-handed strike compared to a close-palmed one. How a blow to the inner thigh stung worse than one to the ass. How a feather-light touch to the right spot at the right time could have a stronger impact than the hardest hit. He loved to see this knowledge and experience dawning in her eyes.

He watched her pace the bulked-up, bound man who glowered and grunted, stuck in that often excruciating place between awkward discomfort and demanding arousal. The litigator watched her deliberately stalk around Rand, letting her cursing captive feel her presence, track her by sight, sound, and smell. She let him fill his senses with her.

“Aww,” she purred, trailing her manicured nails up his back along the ridge of his spine as she walked, “such a big, strong man.” She bent low to face him before cupping his chin in her hand, her nails tapping against his jaw. “Think you’re man enough to take on four little women?”

“Anytime, anywhere,” he answered, his voice a grated rasp in his throat. His glazed eyes stared heatedly at the sweet swell of Max’s cleavage proudly displayed by her silk bra. “Anytime, anywhere, baby.”

The room jumped when Cora—small in stature and size but a hellcat demon within—cracked a crop across his ass, making him jerk and yowl while the women laughed.

“Oh, give that here,” Pip said, her voice throaty, beckoning for the crop. She grabbed the proffered toy and tested it in her hand, swishing it with vicious swings in the air. “Oh yes.” Her long leg kicked back, lifting a high-heeled foot off the floor with delight. “This will do nicely.”

“Oh shit.” Rand snarled and began to struggle against the ropes. “Don’t give that to her. She gets power-crazed with a toy in her hand.”

“Hush,” Pip snapped. With a flick of her wrist, she slapped the rod against the sensitive area just under the hard curve of his ass. He yowled. Straightening to her full and impressive height, Pip wielded the crop like a fencer, swinging to strike in perfect form as Rand’s ass bounced and bucked.

The lawyer could see longing and nerves in Max’s eyes while she watched Pip work Rand over, studying her technique as well as his reactions. She was so curious, so willing and wanting; it was one of her most attractive qualities.

But she was still so new, to the community and to the very idea. She was just getting used to the desire inside her and it was still hard for her to ask. Catching Hallie’s eye, he nodded to Max, knowing the woman would understand.

“Do you want to try?” The observant designer took Max by the elbow and brought her closer to Pip. Taking the crop, she put it in Max’s hand.

“Oh,” Max sputtered, waving her hands in denial, “I don’t know.”

“It’s a crop, hon,” the pretty podcaster said, grabbing her wrist like a tennis instructor guiding her into a fluid backhand, “it’s not exactly a highly technical piece of equipment. Aim for the ass and swing for the fences.” Pip winked with mischievous sass at the inexperienced woman before she stepped back and slapped Rand’s well-worked cheek. “Don’t worry, this one can take it.”

Max stepped forward, the crop held in both hands. She stared at Rand’s upturned rump. The lawyer studied Max when she closed her eyes, clearly picturing the mental image she’d taken of Pip. He noticed how her feet slid back, taking on the same stance as the other woman. She gripped the crop in one hand.

Her first swing was light and a little off, hitting more of Rand’s hip than his ass. From the sidelines, the counselor saw her square her stance and strike again, this time hitting him harder across his left flank. He fought a laugh when she jumped as much as Rand did, surprise making its own impact.

A smile spread wickedly across her face. She was having fun.

Good.

“Even him out,” he called out to her. When she looked at him questioningly, he said, “Hit him again on the other side. To even him out.”

“Can’t have one without the other,” Peter added with a mock shake of his head. “You have to give him a matching set.”

“It would be wrong not to,” Kat added.

“Hey,” Rand shouted over his shoulder, “no help from the peanut gallery.”

The lawyer chuckled at the pouting, bound man’s plight when Max clapped her hands together in devastating preparation. Readying for a show, he settled back to watch Max work.

READ CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

 

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Your Clever, Incredible Tongue

 

ON THE LINE

Frowning, Chris Carey held his phone closer. “What do you mean we need to shake things up?” He harrumphed back against his headboard.

“We’re in a rut, Christopher.” His girlfriend, Danielle Atali, sighed with an audible shake of her head. “We’ve got to Columbus our way out of this.”

A rut? They were in a rut? Chris adjusted his glasses. He supposed that, sure, they’d both been a little tired lately. A little overworked and stressed. But a rut? “How are we supposed to do that?”

“Close your eyes,” she urged into the phone.

He huffed a bit, pouting, but did as she asked. It was, after all, a simple request. “Okay.”

“Imagine us,” her voice whispered in his ear. “Imagine us in your room. On your bed.”

Chris let out a sigh and tried. His mind focused, picturing her painted and so-mobile mouth forming her words. He thought about her tongue, slick and sly, as it slid across those lips, leaving a sheen in its wake. Chris let his mind remember the taste of her kiss, an utterly illogical mix of heated want and cool mint.

He imagined the familiar flush that always swept over her cheeks right before he took her mouth, that visible sign of her excitement that never failed to fuel his own. He knew that a blush like that could travel down her neck, her shoulder, her spine in a tickled shiver with the simplest touch.

And then there, in his room, on his bed, in his mind, like magic, she was laid seductive and stretched-out before him. He imagined the dark fall of curls that clouded around her face and shoulders, framing bared, bronzed skin perfectly.

His hands itched to grab the curves of her body. The swell of her sweeping hips. The pointed tips of her delectable breasts. The length of her long legs. The soft spread of sun-ripened skin, that always held the sweet scent of citrus, over the generous lushness of her body.

He could hear his own breath rasp as his mind transported her from her dorm room to the foot of his bed.

“Good,” he heard her coo in his ear. “Now that you have me there, whatever will you do with me?” she asked in a mockingly naïve voice that left him feeling provoked and promised.

“I want you naked.”

It had just slipped out without him realizing it. To be honest, he hadn’t even noticed that he’d conjured Danielle wearing her favorite pair of rubber duck covered panties, those tiny, yellow quackers taunting him in his fantasies.

He heard her laugh. “I’m not already naked?” Her chuckle lowered. “What am I wearing?” she asked in a husky tease.

“Silk stockings, stilettos, a lace thong,” he grumbled, not about to tell her what his mind had actually given her.

“All right.” Her tone sounded like she approved of his costume choice. “So take it off,” she told him. “With your teeth.”

Chris paused, his face heating.

He didn’t actually know what she looked like naked.

Not completely.

They hadn’t done that yet.

He’d seen her topless. He’d seen her without her pants on.

“Am I naked yet?”

Oh, yeah.

“Um.” He coughed and ruffled his short, red hair. “No, not yet.” He pushed his glasses further up his nose, feeling his face flush a shade closer to his hair.

“Good,” she said breezily. “I want you to tell me when you do it. Tell me how you do it.”

How?

He paled.

How was he supposed to tell her how he would strip her when he’d never actually done it? And wasn’t he supposed to be doing this with his teeth? He couldn’t talk if his mouth was full of lace and silk, could he?

He swallowed hard. Uh. “I go up to you and I take off your clothes.” He hated how it sounded almost like a question.

“Jeez, slow down, speedster,” she scolded. “Get in the game. Phone sex isn’t a wham-bam, thank you, ma’am sport. Go slower. Describe it to me.”

He sighed and squirmed. Jeez, he didn’t know how to do this. Talk dirty. It was one thing to read stuff like that. Much different to watch it in a video or imagine it in his head. But right now, with all this expectation bearing down on him, he felt stupid, choking on all these unsaid words piling up at the back of his throat.

“Okay, fine.” She sighed. “I’ll start us off. But,” she added, her tone haughty as a grade school teacher, “while I describe me getting naked, you have to get naked too. Like in real life. Right now. Okay?”

He bit his lip. “Will you get naked too?”

She paused as if shrugging. “Sure, why not?”

He nodded. “Okay.” He’d do it. Like she’d said, why not?

“That’s the spirit! Okay,” she said, sounding eager...

To read the rest of this story, please check out Cunning Linguists.

Check out my kinky phone sex story "On the Line" in this intriguing anthology from The New Smut Project.

Thirty authors, including Rachel Kramer Bussel, Sonni de Soto, Kristan X, and Good Sex Award honorees D. Fostalove and jem zero, share clever, sensual stories of the many ways we communicate about and around our desires. From erotic epistolary tales to steamy retellings of classics, this collection bursts with memorable and hot new reading material.  Banter simmers until the sexual tension boils over. An academic aches with curiosity about the mysterious woman behind the letters she translates–and the mysterious woman working alongside her. Lovers seek a common language after the fall of Babel. Without a physical body, a spaceship’s AI makes love to her captain with words. A domme and her sub negotiate kink titles that reflect all they are to each other. After saving his nonbinary partner, Victor Frankenstein celebrates both erotically and electrically.  Diverse characters find pleasure in body writing, music, virtual realities, fanfiction, first time phone sex, the queer truth behind local folklore, and reading aloud despite a boyfriend’s best attempts at distraction. Stories ranging from the lighthearted to the bittersweet explore what happens when someone finds just the right thing to say in bed—or says the wrong one—or speaks eloquently without using any words at all.

 

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Chapter Twenty-Four: On Display

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CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: ON DISPLAY

Even after having laid out her plan, no one gathered around Max in the conference room looked enthused. She stared at the three frowning faces looking back at her.

“We need a way to spin this story in our favor, to cut Wayne’s campaign at the knees. Releasing the photos first does that,” Max repeated, even though Peter and the lawyer gave each other uncertain glances.

“Do you know what you’d be saying?” Diane shook her head. “You’d be ruining your reputation—to say nothing of ours. We can’t have these photos linked with us, Max. Not to our outreach program. Certainly not to a senior partner.” She looked at Max, disappointment leaving frown lines on her flawless face. “Especially not to you.” She shook her head again and leaned back. “We just can’t.”

“Why not?” Max leaned forward on the conference table. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

Diane sighed. “It goes against everything we stand for—”

“Mutual pleasure,” the annoyed attorney said, ticking things off on his fingers, “sexual freedom, a rich and honest fantasy life.” He folded his hands again. “How exactly does that go against what you do?”

“Misogyny,” Diane corrected. “You and your club promote the degradation, the dehumanization, and the subjugation of women.”

“And men. Of anyone, really; gender isn’t much of a factor.” Peter gave her a mean smirk. “We’re equal opportunity degenerates.”

“What Mr. Richards means,” Max interjected, giving him a pointed glare, “is that the roles and rules of power are not determined by gender, but rather inclination. Everything that happens in-scene is not only consensually agreed upon, but is often stridently sought. Consent is what makes everything okay. Consent is what makes it not abuse. It’s what makes it kink.”

“You yourself once told me that BDSM ideologically glorifies, romanticizes, and sexualizes abuse.” Diane shook her head. “You said it relies upon a power dynamic that mocks the struggle we as women have fought for equality. That we still fight.”

Remembering Kat, Max looked at Peter. “I was wrong.” Max may not have always seen it, but he was—had always been and would always be—a strong, supportive partner who would always be there for her friend. One whom Kat had always fiercely defended, even against Max herself. “People in the community do believe in equality. They believe in women’s rights to choose.” She looked at Diane. “You know me; I believe in feminism. Wholeheartedly. With the same fervor and faith others put in God. It’s why I fought against the idea of this for so long.” Turning to look at her own partner, she said softly, “It’s why I fought against this part of myself for so long.”

She nodded and took a fortifying breath. “It’s why I now believe in this community—will fight for it.” She looked at Diane, this amazing woman she looked up to and admired more than anyone else in her life. Diane Withewood was a legend and her hero. Would probably always be.

But she was also wrong about this. “You want to disapprove—that’s fine.” Straightening her shoulders, she gave a determined, disappointed sniff. “But I shouldn’t have to defend my right to choose this lifestyle to you or anyone else.” She remembered Kat’s words weeks before; she should have listened then. “No one should have to defend their right to make their own choices.”

This was the life she wanted and Max wouldn’t stop until Diane, like Max herself had, saw her way to right. Until Diane saw all the women Max had met, the women of Donovan’s—Pip, Hallie, Cora, Kat, and, of course, now Max herself—for who they were.

Feeling the strength that came from being part of a group, of belonging to such an incredible group of women, Max said, “Because saying that a woman shouldn’t have to submit sexually to a man isn’t the same as saying she should never submit. Or worse, that she can’t.” She looked Diane straight in the eyes. “Dominate or submit, kink or vanilla, the choice is supposed to be ours.”

———

Kat watched Hallie sit awkwardly in Elysia’s conference room. “I get why you’re getting Mrs. Wayne in the same room as Hallie; it’s basic divide and conquer. But why am I here?”

Max handed her a coffee mug. “You’re here to put a face on Wayne’s unconnected victims.” She needed his wife to see what that man was doing. To innocent people. “We need her on our side, Kat. And I can’t think of anyone who can more eloquently present our side than you.”

Kat pouted a bit. “Well, that’s a lot of pressure.”

“Also,” Max said on a sigh, “I wanted to apologize to you. I’ve been a really awful friend for years. I’m so sorry.”

Kat turned to her. “Max, no.” She shook her head. “You were doing what you thought was right.”

Max shut her eyes, wishing she could turn back time. “Why didn’t you tell me how wrong I was?”

"I did try." Kat gave a small laugh. “But you weren't ready to listen then. You needed to figure it out on your own. Needed to see it for yourself.” Kat smiled at her friend. “And now look at you.”

Yeah. Max nodded. Well, she was never one for half-measures. “Well, at any rate,” she said, touching Kat's shoulder, “I’m sorry, and thank you for all the help you’ve given.” Honestly, none of this would have even happened without her and her dare.

What a strange thought.

Elin poked her head into Max’s office. “Ms. Withewood is bringing Mrs. Wayne up now.”

Showtime.

Kat gripped her hand hard.

“You got this.” Max squeezed her hand back before leading her friend to the table.

Kat settled in her seat. “We’ve got this.”

Max smiled then turned to greet their guest. “Mrs. Wayne.” She nodded at the woman she’d only known through images and soundbites. “I’m glad you could meet with us.”

“You didn’t really give me much choice.” The slender woman stood stiffly in the conference room doorway.

Max nodded. She could be very persuasive when she needed to be. “Please take a seat.”

Eliza sniffed but, beyond turning her head a bit, she stayed still. “This had better not be about Donna.”

“Donna?” Kat asked.

Diane leaned over to whisper to her. “The sex worker Wayne—”

“The young woman from the outreach program,” Eliza interrupted, “that my husband is helping.”

“Outreach program?” Max said. Well, that was one way to phrase it.

“My husband often works with the church to help less fortunate people get off the streets.”

Max’s lips thinned. “I’ve seen Donna’s website and rates. She’s not living on the streets. I’d bet she has a nicer condo than I do.” From the pictures she’d seen, the woman certainly had a better car and wardrobe. Max, while she seriously questioned her choice of clients, had to admire the woman’s entrepreneurial prowess. “Whatever your husband was doing with Donna, I doubt it was altruistically motivated.”

Eliza crossed her arms over her chest and huffed.

Max shook her head. This was beside the point. “But, no,” she said with a shake of her head, “that’s not why we asked you here.”

“Then why?”

“Please,” Diane said, ushering the other woman to the table, “let’s have a seat.” Diane sat before gesturing to each woman. “You know Hallie Hannings and Max Wells. Let me introduce one of our writers, Katherina Valdez-Richards.”

Kat held out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Wayne. I wish it was under better circumstances.”

Eliza shook her hand. “And what are the circumstances exactly?”

Kat grabbed her tablet. “As you’ve heard, Hallie’s store was recently vandalized.” She turned the screen toward everyone else before flicking through photos of all the damage done.

“Which my husband had nothing to do with.” She shook her head. “No matter the lies you’ve spread all over the media. I know what kind of man my husband is and he wouldn’t do that. He doesn’t have to stoop to such behavior. Not when he has the moral high ground.”

Max reached into the folder she had on the desk. “We have copies of your husband’s credit card charges—”

Eliza reached for the papers in Max’s hand. “Where did you get these?”

Max frowned, not particularly wanting to answer that question. She didn’t exactly agree with her lawyer’s means but, if it achieved their end, Max was willing to accept them. So, she pointed at the highlighted list. “As you can see, your husband has made several odd and suspicious purchases recently that coincide with the attack on Hallie’s store.”

Eliza stared at the paper, not looking shocked, per se, but certainly taken aback. As if she was looking at proof of a truth she really wanted to deny. “What are these charges here?” She pointed to several large unhighlighted but underlined purchases.

Max winced. She hadn’t actually intended to talk about that—even though the lawyer had urged her to use it as leverage, if she needed it. She just didn’t know how to break that kind of news to someone. She took a deep breath. “Well, Donna’s escort service presents itself as an events service, where clients purchase tickets to an event—a dinner or party or show.”

“So the service can avoid solicitation charges by claiming he’s paying for the entrance to the event,” Diane pointed out, “and not for Donna’s,” she coughed, “service.”

Like she'd said, you had to admire Donna's business savvy. “But, beyond that,” Max continued, pulling out the black and white photos from her folder, “here are blackmail photos your husband admitted to taking of me and my partner without our consent.” For a moment, Max couldn’t let go of the photos. Her fingers gripped the filmy paper tightly. But, no matter how much she hated the idea of sharing the stolen images, she knew this was what she had to do. She could do this, if it meant protecting everyone else.

So, with shaky hands, she placed each one side by side on the table.

“And those aren’t the only ones.” Kat tapped through more photos on her tablet, showing pictures of herself and of Hallie and the others they’d gotten permission to share. “Your husband is blackmailing as many people involved in the campaign to fix Hallie’s store as he can.”

Now Eliza did look shocked. Embarrassed by the graphicness of the photos. But also by her husband’s behavior, Max hoped. “Look, Mrs. Wayne,” she said, handing Kat’s tablet to the prim woman, who looked at it like it might scald her, “we can’t tell you what’s moral or not. And we can’t tell you what kind of man your husband is.” She put the tablet on the table on top of the pictures already spread out there. “All we ask is that you look at what he’s done and ask yourself, is he really the man you think he is?”

———

Leaning back, Max let out a satisfied sigh and smiled. After weeks of hard work, it was finally happening. She looked out at the street bustling with people setting up booths and stands and displays. Blocked off for the festivities, the street was a happy mess of partially constructed chaos that was steadily building a community’s dreams.

In the middle of it all, Rachel and Peter strung up the “Grand Opening” sign in front of Hallie’s store. Bits ‘n’ Pieces was gleaming. Pristine and perfect, the white and blue façade was elegant yet welcoming. Framed by the large display windows, mannequins were posed coyly in shimmering satins, cascading silks, and clinging lace. Through the shined glass, Max could see the rainbow of Hallie’s glorious creations, displayed on racks and shelves, tempting a person to touch, try, and buy. Everything was perfect.

Today was such a victory for Hallie Hannings. After months of red tape and harassment, her dreams were coming true. Despite roadblocks and vandalism, her store still stood. And it would open. Max smiled at her friend adjusting mannequins in her window.

Yes, today was Hallie’s victory. But it wasn’t just hers. Everywhere along the long street full of people, Max now thought of as friends were those willing to give their time, their skills, and their effort to rally around an idea. Around a dream. Around a promise to women everywhere that the world too often didn’t keep. It was so strange that the people protesting Bits ‘n’ Pieces had said that Hallie’s store went against community standards. Yet it took a community—this community—to make today happen. Despite those attacks, that sought to shame and silence them, they all came together.

Max had never been so proud of anything in her entire life.

“Ms. Wells,” Elin said when she approached her, event checklist in hand, “the portraits are here. Where did you want them set up?”

Excellent! “I want them across the street,” Max said as she pointed, “facing the store in a semi-circle.” They’d go right between Cora’s suspension demo and the local free clinic’s safe-sex stand. As much as this event was to celebrate Hallie, Max—and Elysia Publishing as a whole—wanted to make this an all-inclusive fair that celebrated, encouraged, and informed women about empowered female sexuality. In all its forms. “You have the order they go in?”

“Right here.” Elin waved her checklist. “I’ll get them set up.”

It’d been a stroke a genius. A perfect reply to Wayne’s bigoted blackmail. That horrid, little man wanted to release damning pictures of them? Fine, they’d release them first.

Shock value, she knew, lost its worth the second time around.

So, after making several more calls and setting up appointments and plans, Max had taken five of those stark, black-and-white shots. One had Hallie with her head thrown back in hedonistic ecstasy while a fully clothed Rachel prowled over her naked body, a plundering look on her face. Another had Pip wincing as her body was suspended, the ropes digging into her flesh cruelly. There was one with Kat bent naked over Peter’s lap, her nudity shocking against his fully-clothed form while his head turned away from the camera and his hand swung back, ready to strike. Another was of Reena with her back bent and bared, marked with harsh lines crisscrossing over her skin.

Max sucked in a harsh breath and watched the last one being placed prominently at the end. Blown up to 18 x 24 inch dimensions, the image hit her like a strike across her face. It was clearly her, even in the colorless, oddly angled image, with her face prominently shown. She stood in Hallie’s dressing room, stripping for the looming man in the shadows with his back to the camera.

She forced herself to breathe while she watched the volunteers set the matching photos next to Wayne’s. In the center, they placed the photo of Hallie and Rachel. In brilliant color, it looked electric next to Wayne’s bleak, black-and-white picture. Beautifully nude, Hallie was embraced—held safe and cherished—in Rachel’s loving arms as they kissed sweetly.

Then came the photo of Peter holding Kat, their faces tucked tight into each other while they clung together, two forms so different yet fit together as one. Then there was one of Pip lovingly wrapping the rope into neat bundles with such care and the one of Reena having her back tenderly rubbed with oil by Cora.

Each gorgeously captured moment seemed to erase the security-cam-caught ones that sat bland and false beside them. Their truth too clear and too strong to deny.

“They’re beautiful,” Kat murmured next to Max, her hands filled with fat stacks of cards with special pre-release passcodes for her latest ebook that she would give away with each donation made at the Elysia Publishing booth. “And the juxtaposition.” She sighed, her voice quiet with awe. “It’s powerful.”

How the world sees us.

Who we really are.

Yes. It was powerful.

Max couldn’t wait for Wayne to see it.

When she’d presented the idea to Diane and the others, she’d known the risk she was taking. And not just for herself. She was asking them all to out themselves. To come out publicly about this very, very, very private part of their lives, of themselves.

Even after she’d convinced Diane, the two long-standing members of this very exclusive club had been sure that her idea would be met with skepticism, if not outright refusal, from those within the community.

And some had refused. There were many, like Rand—a detective with the local police department—and Jared—a grade school teacher—who couldn’t afford the exposure. Who could lose everything if anyone ever found out about this secret they kept like an alter ego.

But others, like Kat and Pip—who made their living, in one way or another, off the life already—measured the cost and the rewards and stepped up. Those like Reena and Cora—who were young and just starting out—knew that they could weather this better than most. So they’d agreed when Max had asked. For themselves. And for those who couldn’t do the same.

Like the feminists before them, these brave women were willing to stand up, proud and unashamed, for what they wanted, what they believed in.

“Max,” Diane said as she came up behind her, laying a hand on her shoulder and taking in the street, “you were right; you usually are. Everything looks perfect. An entire event dedicated to teaching women how to take control over their own bodies, minds, and hearts. That advocates exploration and education about their own desires, whatever they may be.” She sighed, impressed. “You’ve really outdone yourself.”

Max nodded as her eyes narrowed on the last portrait being placed on its easel. It was of her and the enigmatic attorney. It’d been a difficult shoot, she remembered. The lights and the people and that camera had been focused on her. Taking—capturing—her image.

Max was ashamed to admit that it’d shaken her. She’d had so much taken from her already, had been so violated, it had been hard to stand in front of that camera voluntarily.

But he’d been there.

Had seen her fear and stormed the set.

As she’d stood there nearly nude amid the lights and the people and the camera, armed only in barely there lace and mesh, he’d stripped off his suit coat and shielded her. He’d slipped it over her shoulders and given her back her armor. Her strength.

Max looked at that image, of him staring into her eyes—of her staring back into his—as he protected her.

No. As he gave her the means to protect herself.

“Thank you, Diane.” She tugged at the sleeves of her business suit. Yes. “Everything turned out perfectly.”

“The press should be here in twenty,” Elin said as she walked up to them. “Are you ready, Ms. Wells?”

Max looked out at the street and everyone who’d helped make all this possible and just knew that today was going to be worth all the effort. “Let’s go.”

———

He checked his phone, seeing the text message from Elin.

Twenty minutes.

He’d be done—this would be finished—by then. He was sure.

“Mr. Wayne,” he said as he unbuttoned the cuffs of his dress shirt before rolling them up his forearms, the golden hue of his skin striking against the crisp white, “we’ve gone back and forth about this for months now.” He shrugged. “And, while we’ve both gained and lost ground, I think we can both agree that this battle is done.”

Sitting in Wayne’s office, he gestured out the window at the street, filling up with volunteers, patrons, and press. “Hallie Hannings’s store is opening and nothing you do will stop that. There’s no more fight left.”

“How long do you think her store will last once I release my photos?” Wayne leaned on his desk and gave the other man a knowing glare. “Once everyone knows exactly what kind of woman she is. What kind of people that writer or radio host or,” he said, sneering and lifting his pointed nose indignantly, “that publisher of yours are, as well as the rest of you.”

Wayne gave a disgusted snort and carried on, “You and your femi-nazi bed-warmer think you’re so clever making this about gender.” The prim man scoffed. “It was never about Ms. Hannings being a woman. It was about you—all of you—being a blight on this neighborhood. You’re corrupting our community. You’re destroying the values we’ve worked hard to instill in our children.” He shook his head and sniffed. “People like you don’t belong here. We don’t want or need your kind.”

“People like your wife,” the lawyer said, refusing to waste his anger on this man. Trying to debate gender politics with a man like Wayne was a waste of breath.

“Excuse me?” Wayne huffed indignantly.

“We took the liberty of arranging a meeting with her.” He was still impressed by Max’s plan. “Got her to agree to a very quiet, very private walk-through of Bits ‘n’ Pieces as well as a sit-down with Hallie and Max, who explained the harassment they’ve both faced.” Crossing his arms over his chest, he eyed the man’s increasingly furious expression. “As well as your involvement in it.” He cocked his head and surveyed the man. “She was particularly interested in the photographs you’re so proud of.”

Eliza Wayne had been the first person outside the campaign to see Max’s brilliant portrait display. Had seen her own misconceptions—her fears and prejudices—laid out next to the realities. Had seen the people behind the monsters. The truth behind the lies.

While still not Donovan’s or even Bits ‘n’ Pieces’s biggest fan, Eliza had been shocked to see the depths her husband was willing to go to just to bring down a woman who’d done nothing against him. A woman who wasn’t nearly the devil her husband had made her out to be.

By the end of the meeting, Mrs. Wayne was determined to help. Demanding to help.

“Your wife’s out there, you know,” he told Wayne. “Right now.” He nodded at the denial in the man’s eyes. “Escorting the very same reporters you had listed in that email, as well as others, around the event. Getting them ready for the press conference that’s happening,” he checked his phone, before saying, “any minute now. She’ll be introducing Max and Hallie.”

Smiling, he stood and laid the divorce papers Mrs. Wayne had his firm draw up on the desk, the blackmail and spying—as well as his affair with Donna—showing her husband for the man he was. A man she could no longer be with.

The older man’s face was crestfallen, as if the world—everything that made up that community he held so dear—had been taken from him. It was as if the strength inside Wayne—the faith and fervor and fortitude that had fueled him—was gone, making him look so much older now. Frailer. Weak.

If the lawyer were a better man, maybe he would have felt sorry for him.

But he wasn’t and he didn’t.

He straightened his suit before he turned to leave. “I hope you’re ready.”

And, with that, he excused himself. He had an event to get to and he’d—they’d all—wasted more than enough time on Lionel Wayne.

READ CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

 

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Chapter Twenty-Three: Looking Deeper

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CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: LOOKING DEEPER

Max yawned. It’d been more than twelve hours since she’d had a break that lasted longer than a trip to the ladies’ room or a coffee refill. She’d been fielding phone calls and emails all day. There’d been some hate messages, sure, but the majority of them were incredibly supportive, volunteering time and donating money. Which made all the work and effort and trouble and risk worth it.

She clicked back onto the email message that the insistent lawyer left her. The last of five that he’d sent throughout the day. Warning her that Wayne would retaliate. Against her. Against him. Against Hallie. And now Kat and Peter and anyone else who volunteered.

Max sighed and shook her head, a worried hand running over her face. She didn’t doubt him—Wayne was certainly capable of it. The question was whether or not it was worth it.

A knock sounded. Max looked up to see Diane in her doorway. “I didn’t know anyone was still here.”

“I wanted to talk to you.” Her boss stepped into the office, taking a seat across from Max’s desk. “I just wanted to congratulate you on the Hannings campaign. It’s marvelous, a great cause that’s creating better PR for us than we could have ever expected.”

“Thank you,” Max said. “That means so much coming from you.” Diane really was her hero, and praise from her was a welcome balm to her frazzled, frayed mind.

“There’s only one concern that we have.” She sighed. “We’re really happy with the connections you’ve made with the community. Building Dream Houses. Pip Jones and her podcast. The career-building center for single mothers—Stepping Stones. Even Hallie herself; you could not have made a better argument for her shop than you did on the news this morning. We absolutely love her for the first community outreach project for Elysia. Those are all great contacts for us.” Her perfect, painted mouth frowned. “But we need you to distance the campaign—the company—from Donovan’s.”

Max frowned and sat back in her chair. “Why?” she asked even though she already knew.

Diane shot her a knowing glance. “You know why,” she said. “It doesn’t represent the ideals of Elysia Publishing, particularly in connection to our outreach program. Owned and run by men. Unapologetically promotes gender-reinforcing, sexist roles. Has a reputation of violence, aggression, and degradation against women.” She shook her head. “We can’t have that kind of connection and you know it.”

“Donovan’s and the people who work there have been the biggest contributors to our cause. We would not have been able to pull this off without them,” Max pointed out. “How can we spit on that by abandoning and disavowing them now that we’re just gaining momentum?”

Diane shrugged and stood. “I don’t know.” She stepped just outside the door. “I don’t know, but you’d better figure it out fast. The board has discussed it and we all agree that we cannot be connected to them.”

Max watched the door close with finality, opening on a crossroads. A choice. The job and life that she’d worked so hard for—the dream that had sustained her for her entire life. Or the principles and people she’d come to believe in.

“Call on line two,” Jeri’s voice buzzed in through the intercom.

Max picked up the transfer. “Max Wells.”

“Did you get my email?”

Max paused, the voice on the other line unfamiliar, sending a cold shiver down her spine. “Who is this?”

The caller hung up.

Max listened to the dial tone, staring at her computer screen as dread drenched her senses.

Swallowing hard, she gripped her mouse and opened her email again.

Still filled with yet unanswered messages about the campaign, Max almost missed the strange email from Unknown. She looked at the email’s subject. “Neighborhood Watch.”

She let her mouse hover over it for a moment, sure that, while she did not want to open that email, she should. It was always better to face the oncoming threat than hide from the attack.

She inhaled deeply and clicked on the message.

Her brow wrinkled.

It was empty.

Almost.

All it had was a single zip file.

Worried, her mouse stayed over the attachment. She ought to open it. She needed to know what it was. She needed to know what kind of new blackmail Wayne and his buddies might have to hold over their heads. She needed to know if this was just one more thing he could hurt them with.

She blew out an indecisive breath. But what if it was a virus? What if it wiped out all her information? What if it stole it? Not just all her information, but all the donor and volunteer information she’d gathered.

Max bit her lip, about to click.

“Another call,” Jeri announced, interrupting her thoughts. “Line one.”

Max paused. “Take a message and tell them I’ll call them back in the morning.” It was late and she needed to think about this. This was already more than she could deal with right now.

“He says,” she said, as if quoting the caller, “ ‘you want to take this call, Max.’ ”

Max stifled a chuckle, her earlier tension relieving. Even for just a moment. “Put him through.”

“Hello, Max,” the lawyer said, his voice smooth and dark as chocolate after a really hard day.

“Sir,” she greeted, smirking.

“How’s the crusade coming?” he asked. “I caught your call to arms on the news today. You were brilliant.”

She smiled, sitting back in her chair, spinning it so she could look out her window and the florescent stars of the city at night. “Thank you.” She sighed. “It’s been,” she said as she smiled, “busy. In the best of ways.”

“No pitchforks and torches?”

“Psh.” She sneered. “Toothpicks and matches; nothing I can’t handle.” She hesitated before turning back to her computer, and sighed.

“What is it?” he asked, obviously hearing the wary weariness in her voice.

Her lips thinned. “I got a weird email from an unknown source.”

He made a disgruntled noise. “What did it say?”

“Nothing,” she said. “It just has an attachment.” She thought about it. “And I got a weird phone call right before it.”

“A weird phone call?”

She shrugged. “Telling me to check my email.” She frowned and shook her head. “That’s when I saw the message.”

“Don’t open it,” he ordered. “I’ll be right there. Don’t open it. Wait for me.”

Max nodded, but her hand reached for her mouse.

“I mean it, Max,” she heard him say sternly before he hung up.

———

Max stood over Peter’s shoulder, alternating between glaring at her screen and all the extra equipment now cluttering her desk and the tall, arrogant man leaning over Peter’s other shoulder.

“So?” the lawyer asked.

“It doesn’t seem to have a virus attached to it, but I’d still rather open it on my computer than on Max’s,” he murmured as he typed furiously. “Especially since this is your work computer.” He turned to his laptop on the desk and brought up the attachment.

They all jolted when the pictures popped up.

“Oh.” Max stared at the grainy, black-and-white photos that exploded like a firecracker all over the screen. Peter sat back when Max pushed past him, clicking through them hurriedly. Huge, full-page, unavoidable, unmistakable photos of herself. Of both men beside her. Of Kat. Of Hallie and of Pip. Of several of the volunteers that she’d met on site. All were at skewed, awkward angles. Zoomed and cropped to showcase the very worst. All were nude or mostly nude. Contorted into lewd positions. While many body parts had been blurred for the sake of decency, their faces were kept clear, the orgiastic expressions twisting their features, hiding nothing.

Max took a closer look at the photos. There was a picture of her with the lawyer in Hallie’s dressing room, his face buried between her thighs. Of her with him in his car, her hand on his cock.

There were pictures of Kat over Peter’s lap, her bared ass bruised and marked and his hand reared with a crop poised to strike.

Pictures of Rachel burying a large, thick dildo deep inside of Hallie.

Max gasped and focused on the last set of pictures before turning to glare at the bleach-blond bastard beside her.

Pictures of him with Pip. With his hands covering her pert breasts. Pictures of him with Sara, also from the fashion show, while he tied her body with rope. With a blond woman—whom she remembered meeting while repainting the shop—as he slapped cuffs on her blindfolded, bound body. Sixteen. Sixteen different pictures of him with more than twenty different women.

Five regular partners and six randoms, my ass! She growled.

She turned to glare at him and the placid, completely non-guilty look on his lying face. “Most of those were from before we met,” he clarified. “And aren’t breaking any actual rules.”

She shook her head and gritted her teeth. He could be such a litigator sometimes.

She turned back to the screen, trying to divorce herself from the people in the pictures and just look at the images themselves. Each photo had the words “Pillars of the city” printed in bold letters over the top.

She stifled a shriek, her eyes widening. She leaned in close to the screen. Shocked, horrified, she saw herself, hands and feet spread like a criminal while Rand’s hand slammed her against the dungeon wall. The slapper in his hand held at his hip, a ludicrously hard and intimidating phallic symbol.

She whimpered in shame as she saw the hungry, hot look on her face. At the want that sparked in her eyes.

Fuck!

“Damn,” the lawyer said, “look at the date.”

Max’s gaze narrowed on the top of the digital flyer filling the screen. Dear God. She clicked through them. All of them had the date of Hallie’s grand opening printed in its corner.

“What,” Peter asked, “does that mean?”

“It means we’re screwed.” Max hid her face in her hands.

The ever-observant counselor scrolled to the end of the file. The last page was filled with a mess of email addresses. “That’s a list of all the emails for the mayor, the governor, the chief of police, and every paper and news station in the local area.”

“So we have until then to back off,” Max continued ominously. “If Hallie’s store opens, Wayne will send this out to everyone on that list.”

Max backed away from the tacit but overt threat on the screen, her hand covering her mouth. If that email went out...

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

She was going to lose her job. She was going to have to move. She’d have to explain this to her parents, her family.

She had to call everyone on her volunteer and donor list. She had to tell them about this. She had to warn them.

Max slumped down into the chair across from her desk. This was all her fault. In trying to help out Hallie, she was going to take down a lot of good people. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

The livid lawyer leaned closer to the screen, his icy glare hard. “How did he get these?” his voice was a harsh grate, an uncharacteristic grumbling growl.

“I don’t know,” Peter said. “Most of these are from inside Donovan’s. How could anyone get these?”

“It’d have to be someone who belongs to Donovan’s,” Max concluded, “right?” A mole in the group. “That’s the only way, isn’t it?”

The two men—the two long-term members of the exclusive, private club—looked at each other, betrayed anger simmering in their eyes as a furious silence swirled dangerously around them.

———

He gritted his teeth before running his hand over his tired, dry eyes. He’d been staring at his computer, sifting through member profiles—past, present, and petitioning—for three days now.

But he just didn’t see anyone in Donovan’s doing this.

There was something about the people in this scene, in this community. They were outliers. Outlaws. They lived by their own code of honor. They had to create their own sense of morality. Because the ones the rest of the world played by didn’t apply to them. They banded together because, so often, no one else—not family, not friends, not coworkers or neighbors—would take them in. They were each other’s family.

Who betrayed their family like that?

He pounded his desk.

“Sir?” Elin asked, poking her head into his office.

He flexed his throbbing hand. “I’m fine, Elin,” he told her, though the lie grated at him. “Any word from Marcus.”

“Not yet,” she said. “But Mr. Richards is heading up.”

“Send him in when he gets here,” he told her. “Then you can leave for the night. Go home. Get some sleep.” He wasn’t the only one who’d been working long days.

“Sir,” she said before leaving.

He shook his head and turned back to his screen.

They’d been so careful. Had always been so sure that they’d protected themselves. But they’d been violated.

And by one of their own.

A knock sounded before Elin led Peter into his office, carrying a tray of coffee that she laid on the table before nodding respectfully and leaving.

“I think I know how Wayne and his goons got the photos.” Peter took a seat across from his desk. “Donovan’s had its security cameras installed by Lock Stock on my recommendation when you remodeled,” he said, regret weighing heavy in his voice. “Who also, thanks to the relationship you now have with them, did the security system at a discounted rate in Bits ‘n’ Pieces. And, who by a complete stroke of bad coincidence, provided the cameras for most of the block of office buildings that Max works at. They also have three employees who go to Anointed Assumption, Wayne’s church, and at least one of those three are active in Wayne’s protest group.”

Bastards. “I want their names.” His fists clenched tight.

“I sent them to you, along with basic profiles,” Peter told him. “None of them were high-ranking, peons with just enough clearance and know-how to make a mess of things. I already called the president of the company. He’s a friend and as pissed about this as we are. The three are under investigation—quietly, of course. And he’s already promised that, if any one of them should be found culpable, they’ll be fired and prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.”

Peter crossed his arms over his chest, the Clark Kent-ish looking man looking meaner and more dangerous than he had any right to. “I told him that the law was the least of their worries.”

“Peter?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“They fucked with Kat,” Peter said. “They went after her.” He shook his head. “Should I find out that they so much as breathed a bad word about Hallie, her store, or the people giving everything they can to help a friend in need, they’ll find themselves in more trouble than they can imagine. Two have grounds for tax fraud. Another has a hidden drug habit. And that’s just on my first pass. I find one, any, or all of these guys guilty, there won’t be an inch of their lives I don’t know about.” He grunted. “No one fucks with Kat.”

He nodded, completely understanding the feeling. “I assume you’ve looked into Wayne.”

“Yeah,” Peter said with a sigh. “Other than his regular sex worker visits, he’s clean. Spotless financials. Eerily perfect tax records. A few minor citations on his restaurant from the health department, but nothing serious and always promptly addressed.”

The attorney shook his head. “Hiring a sex worker looks hypocritically bad for him. It does. But it’s nothing in the face of all those photos. Ours is still the splashier story. They’re going to make us the boogiemen of the business district. They’re going to target each and every one of us, dragging us through the mud.”

“So let’s give them a better story.”

Both men turned.

Max stood in the doorway with Elin and another older, glamorous, regal-looking woman. “Mr. Hayato, Mr. Richards, this is my boss and president of Elysia Publishing, Diane Withewood. I think I have an answer to all our collective problems.”

READ CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

 

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