Текст книги "Madame X "

Автор книги: Jasinda Wilder

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

“No. I don’t. I am who I am, and they can take it or leave it. I ain’t gonna change who I am just for a bunch of stiff-necked old dangly ball sacks.”

My eyes close slowly. “Georgia. I’m not asking you to—”

“Yes, you are!” You take several stomping steps toward me, stare hard at me. “Change the way I talk, dress different. Be different.”

“You said you wanted to do this? Well . . . this is what I do, Georgia. I remove the pretense. I cut through the shit. Which, in this case, is the confusing way in which you present yourself. Are you trying to be a man? It seems sort of that way, but not entirely. And in the boardroom, business discussions will be forgotten in favor of wondering what they’re supposed to think you are. My suggestion is to present yourself as . . . androgynous, I suppose you could say. A male business suit, not a woman’s power suit. An expensive bespoke suit, but tailored to accommodate your bust and hips. Sleek, slim shoes. A watch in dark leather with a sleek profile. Let your hair grow a little and sweep it back from your face.”

“So you want me to dress like a metrosexual guy, basically.”

“If that’s the term you wish to use, then sure. It’s an appearance that could go either way. The point is, it’s professional. An appearance befitting the head representative of Tompkins Petroleum. Dress how you wish on your own time. Speak how you wish, do what you wish. Your personal life is your own. But when conducting business—when on the clock, so to speak—portray yourself a businessperson. And I use the gender-neutral construction intentionally.”

You perch on the arm of the couch. “Won’t they still be wondering whether I’m a man or a woman?”

“Yes. But if you use correct grammar, do not curse and use vulgarity or crude expressions, and dress professionally, and if you prove that you know the business and demand to be respected and taken seriously, those questions of your gender will eventually cease being as important. They’ll still whisper behind your back, of course, but if you demand it with your appearance and your behavior, they’ll be forced to treat you as an equal when it comes to business.”

“What about less formal situations where a suit isn’t appropriate?”

I shrug. “Tailored slacks, a tailored button-down, a men’s polo shirt in a size that fits snugly.”

You seem uncomfortable. “The problem there is when I wear tops that fit, my tits show.”

I keep a steady gaze. “So?”

“So, I don’t like it. They stare. Makes me feel like that girl in the dresses all over again.”

“So let them stare. If it bothers you that much, then bind them, or get a reduction. Wearing baggy clothes in a vain attempt to . . . not even really hide or disguise them, but—I don’t even know what the purpose of the baggy shirt is, to be honest.” I gesture at your shirt and then pause for a moment before starting over. “Whatever the case, it says you aren’t sure about who you are or what you want. Georgia, my point is, you’ve owned your sexuality, yes? You are a lesbian. Okay, well and good. But you haven’t owned your body. You have to decide if you’re comfortable with your body, with the fact that you are, very obviously, a woman. And a well-endowed one at that. I’m not saying dress like a woman. But don’t hide what you look like. That only confuses the issue and makes you seem insecure.”

A long silence. And then, “I am insecure.”

“And it shows.”

“So don’t hide them, but don’t highlight them. Just . . . let them be there?”

“Or do something about the fact that you aren’t comfortable with them.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“I’m sure it isn’t. I’m distilling a very complicated issue down to the absurdly simplistic.”

“Which ain’t—which isn’t exactly fair to me.”

“I’m not paid to be fair. I’m paid to get results. It’s not me who must do these things, so I have the luxury of stating things that are, clearly, more easily said than done.” I move to stand a few inches away from where you are still perched with a hip on the arm of the couch, one foot flat on the floor. “Confidence, Georgia. It’s what I tell my clients most frequently. Everyone is attracted to confidence. It’s about just enough arrogance and cocksureness to seem aloof, yet approachable. Caring about how you present yourself, caring what you look like, making sure you always look your best, behave above reproach, speak with authority, yet appearing as if you don’t care what others think about you. Confidence is sexy. True arrogance is not.”

“What about you, X? What are you attracted to?” Suddenly, the air is thick, and tense, and I am caught off guard.

I take a step back. “This isn’t about me.”

“Isn’t it? If I succeed at your little game, then shouldn’t you be affected by it?” You follow me, and now you are in my space.

Staring down at me. Eyeing me. Assessing me.

We’re of a height—flat-footed you would actually be an inch shorter than I am, but in those boots with the thick heel, we are even. Yet somehow you manage to look down at me. Your presence somehow captures that masculine energy of dominance, of heat, hardness. You are close, too close, nose to nose with me, green eyes blazing, seeing. Your hands go to my waist, clutch me. Pull me flat against you. Breasts smash against breasts. Hips mash against hips. Yet, despite the scent of your arousal in the air, in my nose, there is no thick ridge between us, no physical thickening of desire. It’s baffling. Disorienting. You exude masculine need. You hunger. Your hands dig into my hips just so, and your eyes rake down from my eyes to my cleavage, and your lips tip up in an appreciative grin.

I am breathing hard. Gasping for air. Dragging deep lungfuls of oxygen, swelling my chest within my dress, and you notice. Your hips grind. Something in me sparks, flashes. Heats. The strange mix of your softness and hardness is alluring and disorienting. Your hip bones are hard against mine, yet there is softness, too, and when you grind again, I feel the spark once more, when your front rubs against mine.

I am still, tensed, rigid. Frozen. I do not know what to do. What is happening? What am I feeling? What are you doing?

What am I doing, letting this happen?

I shove away, stumble backward. “This . . . that isn’t appropriate, George—Georgia.”

You smirk. Swagger as you follow my retreat. “Ain’t so absurdly simplistic anymore, is it, X?”

“You signed a contract, Georgia.” I am reminding both of us, and you somehow know it.

“Ain’t none of us that simple, babe. You felt it. You felt me.”

“The contract, Georgia.”

You sneer. “Fuck the contract, X. You and your haughty pussy want me, X. You smell me, and you don’t like it. I complicate shit for you, don’t I?” You stand chest to chest with me again. My nipples betray me, go hard. I know you feel it. “You wet, X? All slippery for me? You know how good a dyke can make you feel? I know what you like, ’cause I like it, too. Just the same way. No guy can ever lick your pussy as good as I can. I know just how to make you squirm, make you want it and want it and want it, and not give it to you till it’s too fuckin’ much to take. I know, X. I know. You want a taste? Get a little dirty? Be a little bad?”

How did this happen? Where did this come from? One moment we were discussing you, your appearance, everything was proper and in control and at least somewhat familiar. And then, suddenly, apropos of nothing, this. You, in my space, in my head, under my skin.

There is a gleam in your eye. Something . . . clever, and malicious. You know exactly what you are doing.

You’re fucking with me.

And I do not like it. Not one bit.

“Enough.” I stand my ground, steel my spine, razors in my gaze. “Our hour is done.”

You smile, a slow, knowing curve of your lips. “All right, then. If you say so.”

I have no idea how much time has passed. I do not care. You disrupt my worldview, George. You make it seem narrow, somehow.

My worldview is narrow. My worldview is made up of 3,565 square feet. Three bedrooms, one bathroom, and an expansive open-plan kitchen and living room. Floor-to-ceiling windows that look out onto the heart of Manhattan. That’s my worldview.

That’s my whole world.

And you in it, this sudden seduction . . . it disrupts everything I know.

I, fighting for equilibrium and composure and breath, push past you. Wrench the door open with far too much force. Wait, eyes staring at you but not seeing you.

You swagger to the doorway, boot heels clicking, and stop face-to-face with me yet again. Too close, yet again. “Confident enough for you now, X?”

You’ve taken control of this, somehow, stolen my grip on what I do and who I am and what I want. I look at you, feigning calm. You smirk, knowing the lie. You push closer, until our bodies are flush, lean in, in, and I think you’re going to kiss me. Instead, you lick the tip of my nose. My upper lip. Smirk.

“See ya next week, X. Think about what I said. What I offered. I wasn’t kidding, you know. I’ll get you out of here, show you a good time you won’t ever forget, I can guaran-damn-tee you that, sweetheart.”

“Good-bye, Georgia.”

“Call me George. We ain’t in the boardroom, are we? We’re past formalities, I’d say. I’ve felt your nips get hard, smelled your pussy get wet. Makes us friends, I’d say.”

I step back, shaking, and close the door in your face.

FIVE

Evening. Clients are done for the day. It took every ounce of my abilities to compose myself enough that I could deal with the rest of the day’s clients. Yet after they are all gone and I am alone, I am still shaken by what happened. No one gets in my space. No one affects me. No one touches me.

No one but—

Ding.

“X. Where are you?” Voice a low, angry rumble.

“I’m in here,” I say. “In my library.”

I call it a library. Really, it’s just a bedroom lined floor-to-ceiling and wall-to-wall with stuffed bookshelves. One corner is left open, a Louis XIV armchair, a lamp, and a little table clustered in the triangle of open space. In the center of the room is a glass case with my prized books, signed copies and first editions of books by Hemingway, Faulkner, Joyce, and Woolf, a copy of A Streetcar Named Desire signed by Tennessee Williams, and even a fourth-century illuminated translation of The Odyssey.

Prized possessions; gifts.

Reminders.

The doorway to my library is filled, darkened. Dark eyes so filled with fury as to be feral. Hands clenching into fists and releasing in a heartbeat rhythm. I set Smilla’s Sense of Snow facedown on my thigh. Pretend to a calm I do not feel; such anger is unusual and dangerous. I do not know what to expect.

Five long steps, powerful legs eating the space in a predatory prowl, a quick hand snatches my book and tosses it across the room, spine cracking loudly against a shelf, pages fluttering, a gentle thump as it hits the carpet. I have no time to react, no time to even breathe. A brutally powerful hand seizes my wrist and jerks me upright. Seizes my throat. Fingers at my windpipe, gentle as a lover’s kiss, yet shaking with restrained fury.

Breath on my lips and nose, clean of alcoholic taint. Sobriety makes this fury all the more terrifying.

“Georgia Tompkins has been recalled to Texas. You will not be seeing her again.”

“All right.” It comes out of me as a whisper, penitent. Careful.

Lips move against mine, voice buzzing in a rumble like an earthquake felt from a hundred miles away. “What the fuck was that, X?”

I swallow hard. “I don’t know.”

“Answer me, goddammit.” Fingers squeeze in warning.

“I did. I don’t know what happened, Caleb. It took me by surprise. I—I didn’t know how to react.”

“It was unacceptable. I had to force Michael Tompkins and his queer slut of a daughter to sign further nondisclosure agreements, so your impropriety won’t be leaked to the rest of my clientele.” I flinch at your cruel and vulgar insult, so casually hurled. I feel offended for Georgia, somehow, though I shouldn’t, and do not dare to let it show. “You work for me, X. Remember that. These are my clients. My business associates. You represent me. And when you act that way, when you allow yourself to be touched . . . it reflects on me.”

“I’m sorry, Caleb.”

“You’re sorry? You let a lesbian touch you? Almost kiss you? You let her speak to you that way? And you”—a tremble in that avalanche-rumble voice—“you looked like—like it affected you. As if you liked it.”

“No, Caleb. I was just—”

“Did you, X? Did you like the way she touched you? Did you like the way she felt? Is it better than the way I feel? The way I touch you?” Hands on my waist, where hers were. Lips, brushing mine. A tongue, touching nose, upper lip. Mirroring. Mocking.

“No . . .”

“No, what?”

“No, Caleb.” This is the correct, expected response. I know this. But I am afraid, and shaken, and unable to breathe, so I forgot.

“No. She doesn’t feel better than me, does she?”

“No, Caleb.”

I am turned, given a violent shove. I stumble and catch up against the glass of the display case. A foot smacks against the inside of my ankle, tapping my feet apart. Another, to the other side. Now my feet are more than shoulder width apart. Hips against my backside. Reflection in the glass: my face, dark skin flushed, frightened, yet my mouth is opened in a moue, eyes heavy-lidded, lips moist, nostrils flaring, and behind my face a larger one, pale skin, dark hair, dark eyes. Chiseled, sculpted features so beautiful it hurts.

Lips at the shell of my ear: “Were you wet for her, X?”

I shake my head. “No, Caleb,” I lie.

“Were your nipples hard for her, X?”

“No, Caleb,” I lie.

I am wearing a dove-gray A-line dress, one of a kind, designed and crafted to my measurements by a prominent fashion student studying here in New York City. It is priceless, unique, and one of my favorite garments.

Hands clutch fabric at my shoulders on either side of the zipper at my spine. One sharp tug, and the dress is ripped apart, fluttering to the floor at my feet. I do not breathe, do not speak, do not move. I do not dare.

Bra unhooked, straps brushed aside. Hands cup my breasts, lift them to rest on the cold glass. Push at my spine to bend me forward until my breasts are now crushed against the glass, smashed flat. Panties are yanked down, roughly.

“Caleb—”

“‘Please fuck me, Caleb.’” This in a rough rasp. “Say it, X.”

I whimper. “P-please—”

“I can’t hear you.”

I hear a zipper being lowered, feel flesh against my flesh, a hot, rigid erection nestled between the globes of my backside. Hands in the creases of my hips. Hands scour my spine, my back, caressing in gentle circles. Hands delve around my waist, dive between my thighs. Touch me.

“‘I’ve felt your nips get hard, smelled your pussy get wet. Makes us friends, I’d say.’” The words are whispered in my ear, matched with a rhythmic touch, creating a wet sucking sound from between my thighs. “You’re wet for me, aren’t you, X?”

“Yes,” I whimper.

“Your nipples are hard for me, aren’t they, X?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

The erection slides, teases. “She can’t give you this, can she?”

“No.” I swallow hard, hating that my body wants this despite the terror in my gut, despite the pounding knot of confusion in my throat.

“So say it.” A moment of silence as fingers move, bringing me to the edge. “Say it, X.”

“Please—please fuck me, Caleb.” I whisper it, and I am rewarded with a sudden and slow penetration.

I feel misused. Mistreated. Manipulated. I feel dirty.

Yet I want this.

Why?

WHY?

What is wrong with me? My nipples were hard for George, I was wet for her. Yet I am even harder and wetter now.

And I was not afraid of George.

A thrust, another, a slow and methodical fucking. Fist in my hair, pressing my face to the glass.

I see no reflection now, only my books: For Whom the Bell Tolls, As I Lay Dying, The Dead, A Room of One’s Own.

Long, slow thrusts. Wet sounds. Sweat on my back. Slapping flesh. My breath, in pants, whimpers. I know how I sound: I sound erotic. I whimper and groan, moan and sigh. My voice betrays me. I cannot deny that I am affected, that such carnal skill, such sexual ferocity, such consummate primal power and unrelenting vigor has me heating up and writhing and detonating, that I am made into a helpless thing, made slave to this. To the sensation of being owned, to being used so. In such moments I am not my own, and I hate and need this in equal measure.

I come, violently, and I hate myself for it.

Lips at the shell of my ear as I lie bent over the glass, the edge cutting into my belly, gasping for breath, near tears: “To whom do you belong, X?” Each word is enunciated carefully, precisely.

“I belong to you, Caleb.” It is the raw truth, however I may feel about it.

“Whose body is this?” A slap to my backside, sharp but not precisely painful.

“Yours,” I murmur, just above a whisper.

I am pulled upright, a broad, hard palm cupping the back of my neck. Eyes bore down on me, pierce me, dark and still furious, but now fraught with glints and fractions of other unknowable emotions. Fingers delve between my legs. Swipe, smear, gather still-hot, just-spilled seed. Touch it to my tongue. I taste it, musk, tang, saltiness, my own female essence woven around the masculine. “That’s me, inside you. You taste us?”

I nod. I cannot speak.

Fingers pinch my nipple, hard. “Your sexuality belongs to me, X. No one else may even so much as fucking smell you, do you understand me? You. Are. Mine.” The pinch does not subside, the pain a sharp ache making me tremble, making some part of me twist and writhe and need. I hate, hate, hate my body for reacting thus. “Do you understand, X?”

“Yes.”

The pinch goes harder yet, hard enough to make me whimper. “Yes, what?”

“Yes, Caleb!” I gasp.

Fingers release my nipple, and my knees buckle with relief. I cannot stop myself from falling. Arms catch me, lift me easily. Carry me into my bedroom, settle me with exquisite gentility. Too gently. The tenderness hurts and confuses worse than the pain, worse than the demands of ownership, distress me more than the sexual dominion.

“Sleep.” It is a command.

And I . . . ?

I obey.

•   •   •

I wake abruptly, disoriented. My blinds are open, letting in the moonlight and the scintillating shine of countless windows from the skyline. I reach to my bedside table for the remote that lowers the blackout shade.

The remote is gone. My noise machine is gone.

My heart sinks.

I rise, still naked, and move to the window. Look up. The blackout shade is still there, installed above the window. But without the remote, there is no way to lower it.

Tears prick my eyes. This is my punishment, then. Without the curtains and the noise, how will I sleep?

I won’t, or not well.

I fight the weakness. Lie down, cover myself with the blanket, pull it over my head, attempt to sleep. But after only a few moments I feel like I’m suffocating, choking on my own hot, recycled breaths. I toss the blanket away. Stare at the ceiling.

I am awake now.

Frustrated and angry, I kick the blanket away, roll off the bed, stalk into my en suite bathroom. Turn on the shower, hot as it will go. Step in, hiss at the scalding heat. I do not lower the temperature, though. I scrub. Mercilessly, I scrub. Until my skin is red and almost bloody, I scrub. Every inch of me, as if I could scour away not just the feel of those harsh, brutal, yet sometimes tender hands, but also to scour away whatever sickness inside me causes me to react to it, to need that touch, whatever venom has poisoned me into needing that sexual domination.

If I could bleed it out, I would.

In a moment of insanity, I take the disposable razor I use to shave my legs and elsewhere. Place the blade on my upper forearm. Drag the razor sideways, and feel the sting as it slices my skin apart. Shocked by the sudden pain, I drop the razor and watch as blood wells crimson on my arm, sluices away, washed down the drain by the shower. I am fascinated by the spill of my own blood, watch it run.

But I do not attempt to cut myself again. I do not have the courage to seek that way out. I am too much a coward. I still wish to live.

And then, without warning, I am slumped on the floor of the shower and sobbing, shower water beating warm down on me, and I am racked by sobs, sobs, sobs. My fists beat at my skull. My fingers claw at my eyes, my hair.

“Fuck.” It comes out from clenched teeth. “FUCK!” I shriek it, finally, but the word emerges as a wordless wail, and even that is muffled by the sound of the shower.

It feels good to curse, though.

I find enough strength to stand, to shut off the shower, dry off, and dress in a T-shirt and panties.

Seeking comfort, I pad to my library on bare feet, pruned toes. Maybe a few hours with Smilla will calm me.

The door is locked.

I try it again. Rattle it. Shake it. Slam my fists against the wood.

Another punishment.

I twist in place and rest my back against the door, fighting yet more tears. And as I lean back against the door, my eye casts across the room at the remaining bookshelf.

Which has been emptied of every book.

Except one, a new title.

Obedience to Authority: An Experimental View by Stanley Milgram.