Behind His Back (13 page)

“Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod,” she says. “So many questions. I’m guessing I don’t have to ask whether it’s good.”

“It’s good,” I say with a smile. I’d need a film production crew and James Cameron directing to properly show her how good it is.

“Better than David?”

I roll my eyes.

“Okay, obviously,” she says. “But how? Spill it, you slutty bitch!” She shakes the air between us like she’s gripping me by the ribs and rattling the details out of me.

“I don’t know,” I say. “Like in every possible way, I guess.”

“You
guess
? You’re a fucking magazine editor and you can’t come up with a better description than that? Faith, I’ve been your friend for more than a decade, and I’ve dished about every one-nighter and every shitty boyfriend I’ve ever had. And so help me God, I will pour this nasty piss-colored microbrew directly into your purse if you don’t return the favor. Draw his penis on a cocktail napkin if you have to.”

I giggle. “Cocktail.”

“Yes, I heard it,” she says dryly.

“Well, for starters, his cock wouldn’t be to scale if I drew it on one of these napkins,” I say.

“Now we’re talking,” she says. I’m glad to be on her good side again.

“It’s big, which is great and all,” I say. “But it’s better than that, because it gets really hard. Like really,
really
hard. Like I could chip my tooth on it.”

“Dear God,” she says. She takes a hard gulp of her vile beer.

“And you know how some of them are all bendy in weird ways? Like not just to the right or left?”

“Downward dogs and rhino horns,” she says. “Every cock is a strange and mysterious snowflake.”

“Right, well his is perfectly straight. Every time I pull it out of his boxer briefs, it points right at me like it’s angry that I woke it up.”

Cassie’s laugh sputters into her beer mid-sip. She wipes the foam from her upper lip and says, “So he’s got a big, straight, angry cock. Sounds like Heaven. Is he any good with it in bed?”

“Good enough that we haven’t made it to the bed yet,” I say.

“Jesus Christ.”

“He’s just so bossy, but in a good way,” I say. “Like he really takes charge and tells me what to do.”

“God, bossy is so hot,” she says.

“And that’s something that David’s never done. With him, it’s like I’m begging. And he’s always looking at me like he needs my approval.”

“I get it,” she says. “Sometimes a girl just needs to be held down and fucked.”

My face turns red as I realize just how intimate these details are. This is stuff I wouldn’t want to share with a shrink. Luckily, Cassie’s the kind of friend who can make even a full-fledged deviant like me feel like a good girl who’s just up for a little cheeky fun now and then.

Emboldened by Cassie’s approval, I take another awful swig and decide to go all in. “And you know how I was telling you about that trainer who owns the gym I go to?”

“The one with the Hugh Jackman body?” she says.

“Yeah, I kind of fucked him too.”

This time Cassie goes full slapstick, spit-taking a fine spray of microbrew onto the table between us. Then she puts a palm on my forehead. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

I think about this for a few seconds. I’ve been thinking about it for a year, actually, and I still don’t have an answer.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I know I’m not happy with David, even though I have nearly every reason to be. I just reached a point where I realized I couldn’t live without sex, and he can. And now I guess I’m making up for lost time.”

“Does David know about any of this?” she says.

“God, no. At least I don’t think so,” I say. “I’m not sure whether he has any suspicions. He’s always away on business, and he’s so distant even when he’s home.”

“That all sucks, Faith, but he’s going to find out eventually, whether you tell him or not. And when he does, this is going to look bad on you, not him. No matter how soft his cock has been for you.”

“I know,” I say. “The weird thing is, I don’t even feel that bad about any of it. I mean, I try to, but whenever I think about it I just want more.

“Do you love him?” she says.

“Hunter? No, I don’t think so. I mean, I’m possessive, but it’s like this pure physical thing. It’s almost like—“

“Like you’re a guy?” she says.

“Exactly!” I spare her the details of my frat boy hypothesis.

“Well, I think you’re in for a rough ride here, but I’m glad you’re getting some rough fucking in the meantime,” she says. She holds up her nearly empty pint glass to cheers me, and I reciprocate.

“Now I’m all excited and I have to pee,” she says. “Keep your fingers crossed that I don’t get into a fight with one of these twelve-year-old lesbians on my way to the ladies’ room.” I show her my crossed fingers, even though there’s a pretty good chance I’ll be hearing the sound of ripping flannel in the next few minutes.

Alone at the table, I hear a song that catches my attention. A female singer with a haunting voice is pining about lost love, and the chorus, “Can’t go home alone again—need someone to numb the pain,” nearly floors me. I check to make sure no one’s watching me, and then I pull out my phone to Google the words and figure out who’s singing them. Fuck the hipsters who might catch me in the act—I need to know.

But before I start the search, I see that I’ve missed a text from a few minutes ago.

Holy fuck. It’s Hunter
.

“I see you’ve been a bad girl,” it says.

Shit. I forgot about that stupid pearl-necklace picture I sent him. But at least he’s responding. That’s a good sign, right? There’s only one direction I can go from here. For all I know, some fitness supermodel had her lips wrapped around his cock while he was typing the text.

“I’ve been so bad,” I write. “But I’m just getting started.”

He responds instantly. “Let’s see just how bad you can be. Meet me in the bar at the Lotus hotel in one hour.”

I set down my phone and feel my face flush. I played a risky hand by sending him that photo, but it looks like I got his attention. My mind rummages through the various punishments that might await me, and every possibility makes me wet with anticipation.

I’m planning my early escape when one of the skinny-jeaned hipsters approaches my table. He’s tall and cute with full, foppish hair and a few days of stubble covering a decent chin, but his chambray shirt is rolled up at the sleeves to reveal smooth forearms that aren’t much thicker than Cassie’s. Like the arms of nearly everyone else here, his display a random smattering of tattoos that will likely unite in a full sleeve once he can convince his parents to pony up the cash.

“Do you work out?” he asks from a few paces away. I can barely hear him over the din of the music.

“What?”

“You look like you work out,” he shouts. He musters the courage to come closer and then smiles.

Good God, is this weak little puppy hitting on me? Maybe my flushed face from Hunter’s text beamed out some kind of evolutionary signal that I’m good to go.

“Yeah, I train at a place called Rev Fitness,” I say. “It’s this new kind of warehouse gym.” I feel like such a bad-ass just saying that.

“That’s cool.” He slides his narrow ass into Cassie’s seat without an invitation, and the sloppy way he slams his tailbone onto the wooden bench tells me he’s more than slightly inebriated. “I just started doing yoga,” he says.

I stifle a laugh. Of all of the cheesy pickup lines he could have pulled out, telling me about his new penchant for yoga is the lamest, most barf-worthy move he could have made.

“I’m sure your boyfriend will appreciate your newfound flexibility,” I say, and I nearly cup a palm to my lips as the last syllable escapes. I may have gone full frat boy, but I’m not out to hurt anyone’s feelings. Still, I’m proud of the quickness of my quip. I give myself a mental high five.

Yoga boy laughs uneasily. He’s a guy—he can take it, right? I wonder whether he’ll continue his pick-up plan after I’ve taken the wind out of his sails, but it appears he’s drunk enough to plow through.

“I just think it’s really cool that you do that,” he says. “You have to be good to your body, you know?” He punctuates his wisdom with a sip of imported beer that has a Canadian maple leaf on the label.

“Right,” I say.

“So do you go to school here?” he says.

Really? That’s his tack? Make me feel good by pretending I look like I’m still in college? Please.

“No, I’m an editor at
Simply Living
.”

“No shit,” he says. “Is that like a magazine or something?”

“Yeah,” I say. I’ve had just about enough of yoga boy and his clumsy compliments. If I want a self-esteem boost, I’ll watch Hunter’s cock harden as I undress. Which is exactly what I plan to do as soon as I can find a graceful way to get out of my girls’ night.

I spot Cassie coming back from the bathroom with a stern look on her face, and I hatch an idea.

“Listen,” I tell him. “Do you like to fuck?”

His jaw falls open, and he nearly drops his brown bottle.

“I mean like good, hard fucking?” I say. “No pussy bullshit?”

“Holy shit,” he says. “I mean—yes. I’m down with hard fucking. Where do you want to—”

“Not me,” I say. “No offence, but I would break you. You’re a skinny guy who does yoga. And I don’t fuck skinny guys who do yoga.”

“Damn,” he says, looking like he might cry. In five seconds this night has gone from the best of his life to one of the worst.

“Pay attention, okay?” I say. “I’m going to leave, but my hot friend over there is a sure thing if you play your cards right.”

He turns his head to scan the room for my fabled friend. “Don’t look,” I say. “Just listen. If you want to get laid tonight, don’t tell her about yoga and don’t ask her if she’s a student. Both of those things make you look weak and retarded. Look her in the eye and tell her she’s smoking hot, and that you came over here to get some dirt on her while she was in the bathroom. When she asks you what you found out, tell her that you know exactly what she likes in bed, and scold her for being such a dirty girl. Be mean, because I’m guessing that your version of mean is just being slightly less of a pussy than the singer from Coldplay. If that works—and it will—follow through. Take her home, fuck her hard, and be extremely bossy. Understand?

“Yeah. I think so,” he says.

“Good. She just finished a pint of the house microbrew, and she hated it,” I say. “Buy her a proper drink. Something that’s the opposite of anything you and your friends would order. Something with vodka.”

“Thanks!” he says.

“Shut up,” I tell him just as Cassie arrives.

“Who’s this,” Cassie says, smiling at yoga boy.

“This is—what was your name again?” I ask him.

“Caleb,” he says.

“Of course it is,” I say. “This is Caleb. He was just asking about you.”

I slide out of the booth and pull Cassie aside. “I’m so sorry,” I say.

“Let me guess. You’re ditching me to go meet your new Aussie fling.”

I’m still searching for a polite way of rephrasing it when she smiles and says, “It’s cool. Go and get you’re fuck on. But I get to hear every dirty detail tomorrow.”

“Deal,” I say, and I give her a hug. If yoga boy comes through, she’ll have some details of her own.

Cassie immediately turns her attention to the skinny stranger, who’s still sitting at our table and watching us with a confused look on his face.

“Hi,” she says. She sits down and extends her hand.

“Hey,” I hear him say as I make my exit. “How much does that microbrew suck?”

L
otus is
the kind of hotel that magazine editors don’t frequent unless they’re interviewing an A-list celebrity. It’s part of a chain owned by some Chinese bajillionaire, and there’s one in every major financial center around the world. Our city’s is the latest, and it’s the crown jewel of our newly gentrified waterfront district.

Nicole wrote a brief piece on it a few months ago when it first opened, but even though she could have expensed any of the lavish drinks she ordered at the bar, her credit card was maxed out before she made it to her second martini. She would absolutely murder me if she found out I was meeting a photographer to share a drink here.

My cab pulls up to the entrance, and as I step out onto the polished concrete I feel grateful that I stopped at home and changed into something a little more upscale. As much as I love my fuck-me jeans, the backless little black dress I’m wearing is a much better fit for Lotus.

A handsome Asian with immaculately coifed hair holds a glass door open for me, and I step into the lobby, which is a low-lit, oriental-themed den of luxury. The tall, all-cheekbone blonde girl behind the bamboo concierge desk is at least a ten-point-five, and she probably has a side job as a model that will blossom into a jet-setting catwalk career before her twenty-first birthday.

“Can I help you?” she asks.

“Just looking for the bar,” I say.

The girl smiles and points me toward a sunken room at the darkened end of the lobby. Even from where I’m standing, I can see the waterfront lit with gorgeous Chinese lanterns beyond the bar’s massive glass walls.

As I pass the three girls manning the check-in desk—another two blondes and a brunette for good measure, all of whom are as attractive as the pubescent concierge—I glare at them, trying to assess whether they’ve surreptitiously given their phone numbers to any handsome, faintly Australian-sounding photographers this evening. All around me, hedge-fund managers in fitted suits guide women in revealing dresses along the dark, reflective floor. A few of the women are probably escorts—or at least they really, really like Ferraris. Some are on their way to the bar to get liquored up on fancy cocktails, and others have completed that stage and are making their way to the elevators to seal whatever deal a place like this is bound to imply.

When I enter the bar, I expect to see Hunter waiting for me, smiling mischievously about whatever adventure awaits me, but he’s not here. I do a quick scan around the room and then take a seat at the bar. The bartender is another young, beautiful blonde, this time with burdensome cleavage that pours over the top of her black blouse like latte foam bubbling over the brim of a Starbucks cup. If I can’t look away from it, I don’t know how the coked-up financiers who frequent this place can keep from staring. But I suppose that’s the point.

She approaches me right away and smiles while I ask for a glass of red, and she sets off on a recitation of the long, hard-to-pronounce wine list, purring every foreign word with sophisticated poise. I stop her at the first wine I recognize, a Garnacha Tintorera from Spain, a glass of which ends up costing thirty-four dollars.
Fuck it
, I tell myself. Tonight will be worth it, and I need the courage.

I’m nearly finished my lonely glass when I hear my phone buzz. Just as I suspect, it’s a text from Hunter, and it’s characteristically vague and bossy.

“Do what she says,” it reads.

What
she
? The bartender? I give the young linguist a quizzical look, as if her unblemished face might offer up a clue, and then a familiar woman takes a seat on the upholstered stool next to me. It’s Hunter’s assistant from the first time I saw him at Rev—the busty one with the tiny waist and impossibly long, straight hair. She’s wearing a short red dress that, despite covering her ample chest from the front, is embarrassingly open at the sides—open enough that I can tell she’s not wearing a bra. An equally scandalous opening traces up along her leg, exposing her tanned thigh. It takes a special kind of body—and a special kind of confidence—to pull off a piece like that, and my face reddens to match its shade at the thought of her wearing it around Hunter.

Fuck. I have to obey
her
?

“Hello, Faith,” she says in a bitchy tone. She’s clearly about as happy to see me as I am to see her.

“Hey.” I eye her suspiciously.

“It’s Anika,” she says.

“Anika,” I repeat. Christ, even her name is kind of bitchy.

“Finish your drink,” she says. “We’re going to go upstairs and have some fun.”

We? Really? I guess I don’t have much of a choice, given Hunter’s instructions.

“Is there going to be a photo shoot or something?” I say.

Anika smiles. It’s the first smile I’ve seen from her, and it’s just as upsettingly attractive as her body. “Something like that,” she says.

I take a final sip and then follow her to the elevator like one of the Ferrari-loving call girls, wishing I’d had time for another glass or two to stiffen my nerves for whatever’s about to happen.

I feel my temperature rising inside the dark, lush elevator, and I sneak glances at myself in the gold-tinged mirror to check if I’m pale. Anika stares indifferently at the elevator doors, and I find it almost impossible not to stare at the exposed side of her breast. It’s the first time I’ve been jealous of a pair of tits that absolutely must be fake. I wonder what her involvement in all of this is. Will I have to do anything sexual with her? I make a promise to myself as we’re propelled upward to the eighteenth floor that whatever Hunter commands, I’ll obey.

When the elevator doors open, I follow her down a long hallway, staring at her plump ass as it sways with each step. It’s a gorgeous ass, but mine is better. And as petty as that sounds, it gives me strength to keep going. Would other women find this creepy? Would they freak out and bolt? And why does all of this mystery turn me on so much?

“Here we are,” she says when we reach the room. She slides a card and pushes the door in, holding it for me to enter ahead of her. I take a deep breath and cross the threshold, excited to see Hunter.

Only there is no Hunter. The room is empty, save for a massive television and a high king-size bed with black bedding and a headboard of elaborately carved bamboo.

“Do you have to pee?” Anika asks.

“I beg your pardon?” I say. That’s not a fetish I’m particularly interested in exploring.

“Go pee if you need to,” she says. “I’m going to tie you to the bed.”

Holy shit. I might be getting myself into something more dangerous than a night of majestic fucking, but I have no reason to distrust Hunter—yet.

“I’m fine,” I say.

“Good,” she says. “Then I need you to take off your clothes.”

I think back to the silent oath I took in the elevator—whatever Hunter wants, I’m up for it. I pull my dress down past my shoulders and shimmy it over my hips and down my legs, revealing an ornate pink bra and thong combination—my most recent Fräulein purchase. I was hoping I’d be revealing them to Hunter, not the busty girl he pays to tie up his conquests in strange hotel rooms. And her total lack of interest in my underthings makes me miss the fiery eyes of Miss Sassy Pants from the dressing room. Maybe Anika once stood where I’m standing. Maybe Hunter fucked her too, and she’s jealous of me. I almost feel sorry for her.

With my dress on the floor, I stand before her in my lingerie and heels and await her next order.

“All of it please,” she says.

Fuck. Hunter’s not even going to see it. As I unclasp my bra, it occurs to me that I’m more bothered by Hunter not seeing my underwear than I am by a woman I don’t know seeing me naked. I’ve come a long way, baby.

Anika doesn’t even pay attention as I reveal myself. She’s busy unpacking a hardshell case that’s lying beside the bed. She pulls out a lighting stand and a tripod, which I’m assuming will hold a camera, and she sets everything up so that it’s pointing toward the bed.

“Sorry about all that,” she says once everything’s set up. “I know this must seem a little weird.” It’s a rare ray of humanity from her, and I suddenly want to be her friend. Which is probably strange of me, considering that she’s still fully clothed and I’m standing naked in front of her.

“Now let’s take a look at you,” she says. She assesses me with a clinical indifference and then says, “You have a gorgeous body. I can see why he’s into you.”

“Thanks.” Did I say
friend
? Let’s go with
best friend
.

“Now hop on that bed so I can tie you up,” she says.

She pulls back the bedspread and bunches it up on the floor, and I crawl onto the bed, a little scared and very excited, and lie on my back on the black silk sheets with my head resting on the matching pillows.

“Good girl,” she says, and she retrieves two lengths of white nylon rope from a travel bag beside the camera case.

I start to heat up when she walks to the side of the bed to secure my arm to the headboard. The knot is complicated enough to suggest she spent some time in Girl Scouts, but it’s not uncomfortable. I’ve never been tied up before, and I never guessed it would be something that excited me, but by the time she makes her way to the other side of the bed to fasten my other arm, I’m half wishing she had climbed on top of me and straddled my chest while doing it. Once I’m fully secure, I’m so turned on that she could do just about whatever she wanted to me and I wouldn’t protest. I can’t tell whether it’s my lingerie addiction or some twisted desire I’m developing, but I’m suddenly desperate to see whether she’s wearing any panties beneath that revealing dress.

“That should do it,” she says. She gathers up my clothes and puts them in one of the drawers of the room’s large black dresser.

“Have fun,” she says while I stare at her longingly. “You’ll do fine.” Then, before she walks out, she switches on the television and the studio light.

When my eyes adjust to the bulb’s glow, I see on the screen a real-time video feed of my naked body bound with white rope to a luxurious black bed. Instant arousal floods my pussy, and as I stare at my body, naked and vulnerable and ready to be fucked, I struggle fruitlessly against the ropes to touch myself on film.

The first thing I hear is a woman giggling in the hallway. She sounds young and maybe a little drunk. The giggling gets closer, and then I hear a card slide through the door’s lock. My heart thumps as I hear it beep faintly and then unlock with a mechanical click.

A tall girl with a blonde bob stumbles into the room in too-high heels and a dark, sequin-strewn tank-top dress that barely covers her bum. She’s all long legs and gangly arms, and her skinny limbs are slathered in colorful ink. The two tattoos of holstered guns on her bare thighs immediately give her away.

“I remember this body,” she says. She smiles and clumsily reaches back to remove each of her acrobatically ambitious shoes, steadying herself with a hand on the wall. Then she pads across the carpet toward me, smiling mischievously.

Behind her is Hunter in a black, trim suit with an open collar, looking like a
GQ
cover that came to life.

“Hello, Faith,” he says. “You remember Jessica, don’t you? As I recall, this isn’t the first time she’s seen you naked.”

“Hi,” Jessica says with a cartoonish squeak. She stands at the foot of the bed and gently strokes my foot like it’s an anesthetized bunny at a petting zoo.

“Hi,” I say. Once again, Hunter’s proven that he knows how to fill me with a thrilling combination of fear and arousal. Thank God I’m tied up so I don’t have to make the first move.

Hunter strides across the room and sits in a large upholstered chair facing the bed. “I’ve brought you a toy,” he says. Then his voice becomes stern. “Undress your new toy for me.”

I make a show of struggling against the ropes. “My hands are tied,” I say. Why is he forcing me to disobey him? Is this part of his plan?

He smiles. “Then undress her with your words.”

I look at Jessica, who’s standing before me, wet lipped and waiting for my instructions. “Take off your dress,” I say, trying to hide the shakiness in my voice.

She takes a step back from the bed and complies, never breaking eye contact. With lithe arms and jutting elbows, she reaches behind herself to unzip, and she lets the dress drop past her narrow hips onto the carpet with a whispered clatter of colliding sequins. Her neon blue push-up bra and matching barely-there panties are spectacular, and for a second my fixation on the fabric’s fine details distracts me from the most erotic scenario of my life. The set must be from Fräulein, but I haven’t seen it in any of my email updates. It must be new. Whichever suitor bought them for her in hopes of carnal reciprocity had excellent taste.

With her dress on the floor, she stands in front of the bed, one leg in front of the other, turning her body from side to side like a child waiting for candy. Fingers tipped with bright pink nail polish reach up to trace demurely along the hem of her bra, which can scarcely contain her firm little tits.

I look at Hunter for a sign that I’ve done a good job, but his expression hasn’t changed. I’m far from finished.

“Now the bra,” I say.

Jessica smiles with relief, as if she thought I’d never ask. She unclasps her bra and shimmies it down her arms, wiggling her tits. She just can’t help being sexy.

The bra falls to the floor, and Jessica clasps her wrist behind her ass, pulling her shoulders back and putting her chest on display.

I assess her body and then stare into her mascara-sheathed eyes. She stares back hungrily, like we’re both being held apart from each other. As if the second we’re freed, we’ll collide and combine and entangle our warm bodies.

God, I’m so fucking wet. I’m craving friction so badly that I start gyrating my hips on the sheets in a restrained rhythm.

“What else?” Hunter says. He’s growing impatient with my pace. I can only imagine how hard his cock must be right now.

“Your panties,” I say, this time with more confidence. “They belong on the floor.”

She slides her thumbs between the stretchy fabric and her hips and begins to peel them off.