Bettie Page Presents: The Librarian (17 page)

CHAPTER 32

The clothing store was tucked away on a side street in the Village, not far from her apartment. Despite its proximity to her home, she never would have noticed it.

It was called Guinevere, and unlike the other highly commercialized brands in the shopping district, there were no mannequins or clothes in the window, just red velvet curtains obscuring the interior.

Sebastian held the door for her, and Regina walked inside. She gasped.

It was rococo/baroque meets steampunk meets
Alice in Wonderland
. The only thing missing was a sprinkling of fairy dust as she walked in the door.

The walls were covered with photographic murals of women with ghostly pale skin, flowing white-blond or cotton-candy-pink hair, rouged cheeks, and rococo gowns with punk or fairy-tale twists: combat boots, corsets, butterfly wings. The furniture—ornate armchairs and brass-framed mirrors propped against the walls and a five-tiered crystal chandelier—could have been taken right off of the film set for
Marie Antoinette
.

The dresses, hanging on racks interspersed throughout the scattered pieces of ornate furniture, were not vintage, but contemporary interpretations of every romantic phase of design since the Elizabethan era.

“Is Pamela here?” Sebastian asked one of the saleswomen. She was diminutive, wore all white, and had narrow eyes underneath heavy bangs, cut not unlike Regina's own hair.

Regina leaned against a shelf and almost knocked over a gilt-edged china teacup.

“She's in the back room,” said the woman.

Sebastian took Regina by the hand and led her through the maze of dresses and tables and hat stands to the back of the store. They passed through another velvet curtain into a smaller room, this one bare except for a half-dozen display cases.

“Hi, Sebastian,” said a tall redhead, unfolding herself from an Edwardian chair upholstered in hunter green and gold.

“Pamela,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. Regina tried not to feel jealous, wondering if Pamela was also part of the “community,” as he had called it. She hated how she was starting to view everything through the lens of how it related to Sebastian. “This is my friend Regina.”

Regina looked at him, thinking “friend” was an odd moniker to use to describe their relationship. But then, that was the problem. What were they? Lovers? Bondage buddies?

“A pleasure to meet you,” Pamela said with a sincere smile, shaking her hand. “And what are you two looking for today?”

“She needs a mask,” Sebastian said. Regina looked at him, startled. The first thing that came to mind was one of the cartoonish Halloween-type masks on display at Ricky's. But Pamela led them to one of the nearest display cases. Regina peered down at a colorful display of ornate eye masks suitable for a formal masquerade ball. Gold, lavender, black, sequined, feathered, fringed, trimmed with brocade and dangling ribbons.

“That one is inlaid with two hundred Swarovski crystals,” Pamela said, noticing Regina's interest in a gold piece in the center. Pamela produced a key ring and unlocked the case. She handed the mask to Regina.

“Try it on,” Sebastian encouraged when he noticed her hesitation. Regina complied, slipping it over her head. He helped her adjust it so it rested on the bridge of her nose. She was surprised how clearly she could see out of the eyeholes. She was also surprised by how substantial it felt, unlike the cardboard play masks people gave out at New Year's Eve parties.

Alexis handed her a mirror. Regina looked at herself and smiled.

“It's beautiful,” she said.

“That was easy,” Sebastian said. “There's nothing better than a decisive woman.” He smiled at her approvingly, and Regina felt a swell of satisfaction in her gut. She wasn't used to pleasing him outside of the bedroom. It felt good. It made her think that maybe there was a chance for another dimension to their relationship, after all.

Regina removed the mask and handed it to Pamela.

“Anything else today?” she asked, heading toward the register in the front of the store.

“Not just yet,” he said. “But if we don't find what we need uptown, we might be back.”

The car was waiting for them outside.

“What is all of this about?” Regina asked, taking the black shopping bag from him.

“Tonight, we're going to the Bondage Ball,” he said, opening the door to the Mercedes. Today, he was driving himself. She sat with him in the front seat, and she preferred this to the chauffeured formality of their usual outings.

“Oh my God, what is that?”

“It's not a real ball—just a big party,” he said. “But bondage is a part of it.”

Regina swallowed hard. “Are you sure it's a good idea? I mean, I'm fine with everything we do. But I can't imagine being somewhere public. . . .”

“It's not public. It's a private party. And I hadn't planned on going. But the argument we had over Sloan made me think we need a little trust exercise.”

“It wasn't exactly an argument . . .” Regina said.

“Misunderstanding. Whatever you want to call it.” He squeezed her hand. “It made me reconsider the ball. I think it will be good for us.”

“Will Sloan be there?”

“No,” he said. “Why would she be?”

“You said she was part of the scene . . . or ‘community,' or whatever you called it.”

“Oh, yeah. Well, not so much since getting engaged. Her fiancé is vanilla.”

Regina had no idea what that meant. He was white?

“Aren't I vanilla?” she asked.

He laughed. “
You
are adorable.”

“Don't patronize me,” she said, feeling stupid.

“I'm not! Can't you see I'm crazy-mad for you? You wake up in the morning, and I've already planned our day . . . and night. You're always on my mind, Regina. You've totally captivated me. Possessed me. I feel under the spell of one of those magical fairies on the wall in Guinevere.”

Regina turned to look out the window. “So where are we going to now?”

“Louboutin. How can you go to a ball without glass slippers?” he asked with a wink.

•

The Jane Hotel was a century-old Georgian building on the far West Side. Once a stopover for travel-weary sailors, the recently revitalized ultra-hip boutique hotel was playing host to the Bondage Ball.

“This place has a lot of history, a storied past,” Sebastian said. Regina held fast to his arm, barely able to navigate the cobbled streets of the Meat Packing District in her new Christian Louboutin heels. She was less worried about falling than she was about scuffing the shoes. They were magnificent works of art. Four inches high, black satin with the trademark red underside, the heels were inlaid with crystals in the shape of snowflake-like stars.

“It's not the past I'm worried about,” Regina said. “It's the present.” She still couldn't get the words
Bondage Ball
out of her mind. And she couldn't say she liked the ring of it.

“They brought survivors of the
Titanic
to this place. Kept them here until they finished the American inquest,” Sebastian said.

“That's amazing,” Regina conceded. But she had her own disaster to worry about.

Sebastian knew her well enough by now to sense her anxiety. He patted her hand on his arm. “Relax. The only thing you have to know about tonight is that no one will touch you but me. Do you understand?”

She nodded but felt far from reassured. She didn't know exactly what she was worried about. Maybe the idea of someone else “touching” her was too specific. It was more general unease about being out in public, being among people at a venue where everyone knew the subtext of the night was their particular brand of sexuality. Even if they just stood around drinking wine and eating cheese cubes off of trays,
everyone would know
. This wasn't just some private little game between Sebastian and her. Tonight, it was real.

And she was still thinking about the conversation with Margaret.

He held her hand, and they walked up the stairs into the hotel, pausing just outside the door.

“Put your mask on,” he instructed. She had been holding it since they left the car, almost forgetting about it even though it was tucked under her arm, too big to fit in her tiny evening clutch.

Sebastian helped her adjust it over her hair, and then slipped on his own, one of plain black. He wore a black tuxedo. She, too, wore black, an astonishing outfit from Morgane Le Fay that was more costume than dress. It was a silk organza and satin top that crisscrossed in front and tied tightly around the waist with black ribbon. The skirt was a modified hoop skirt, with an opaque, tulle midsection that necessitated a small silk underskirt. If there was one consolation to the evening, it was that she did not feel at all like herself. Whatever happened, she could pretend she was just playing a role.

She walked inside, her hand tucked in the crook of his arm.

The entrance foyer was narrow, with high ceilings, decorated with potted, large-frond plants, a moose head on the wall, a candelabra chandelier, and an old-fashioned wooden check-in counter with a formally dressed bellhop in maroon waistcoat and matching cap. She felt as if she'd walked into a Stanley Kubrick film.

“Good evening,” the bellhop said.

Sebastian handed him some sort of black card—like a credit card. It was checked against a list, then returned to him.

“You'll find the rules for play in the ballroom. Enjoy your evening, Mr. Barnes.”

Sebastian led her through the hallway to a narrow bar, all dark wood and low lighting, lined with a long settee.

A tall woman in a shimmering silver gown met them halfway into the room. Her mask was purple, plumed with green feathers and edged in matching sequins. Her blond hair was piled on top of her head in an elaborate chignon, and her lipstick was violet and waxy. “Welcome, friends,” she said. “Proceed to the ballroom. And just a reminder, all of the hotel rooms are for use by guests of the ball. You will find props and toiletries in each room, and they are for your use as you see fit. But the doors must remain open at all times. Any violation of that rule will result in your being escorted off of the premises.”

Sebastian nodded, and Regina looked at him questioningly. If he saw her glance, he didn't let on. Instead, he took her hand and led her into the ballroom.

CHAPTER 33

The ballroom—if you could call it that—was more like the drawing room of a decaying mansion, one owned by a fabulously wealthy family with the most lavish and eccentric of tastes. If she had to encompass the vibe with one word, she would have to go with Victorian, though that wasn't exactly accurate. The enormous room had paneled ceilings, vintage cornices, faded Persian rugs, a massive fireplace, and taxidermy specimens; hanging above it all was a giant silver disco ball. There were velvet-covered couches in gold and maroon, antique wooden tables, zebra-covered chairs, large potted plants, chandeliers, and floor-to-ceiling windows with velvet curtains.

And against the backdrop of the carefully constructed faded glory, men and women dressed in black tie mingled and danced to the DJ, who was playing the Edwyne Collins song “A Girl Like You.”

Looking up, there was a mezzanine. Regina had the urge to climb the stairs and get a bird's-eye view of the room.

A man approached them. He was dressed in a red velvet suit, had slicked-back dark hair, and wore a mask that was beak-like.

“Will you two be participating in the midnight scavenger hunt?” he asked. “We have a sign-up sheet near the DJ booth.”

“No, thanks,” Sebastian said.

Regina actually liked scavenger hunts, and the idea of one taking place at midnight, in a costume of sorts, was intriguing to her.

“Are you sure you don't want to?” she asked.

“Yes. It's just an exercise to help people bond so they can then segue into more . . . intimate activities later on in the night. We don't need that.”

She was distracted by the sight of a man in a tuxedo trailed by another person—it was impossible to tell if it was a man or woman—crawling on hands and knees and encased from head to toe in a black rubber suit.

“How can someone breathe in that?” Regina asked, shuddering. It looked unnatural and uncomfortable, and she found it disturbing.

“I'm sure there are air holes. Well, I'm not sure. Latex isn't my thing,” he said.

Despite her best effort not to, she found herself staring after the odd duo.

“Let's go upstairs,” Sebastian said.

She followed him through a door that was upholstered in leather and studded with brass. They took an elevator up to the second floor and walked down a narrow, wood-paneled hallway. As had been explained to them, the guest room doors were all wide open.

Regina glanced inside of one, and then quickly looked away.

The open door revealed a woman naked on a twin bed, bound in an elaborate system of ropes that left her on her stomach, her hands and feet tied together, a ball gag in her mouth. Her bare ass was covered in red welts.

“Oh my God,” Regina said, grabbing Sebastian's hand. “Do you think she's okay?”

“Of course she is,” he said.

“Someone just left her there. . . .” The sight was disturbing to her, but she told herself it was just staged—like one of the bondage photos in the Bettie Page book.

“Regina,” he said, “try to keep in mind where you are. And above all, trust me.”

Another couple passed them in the hall, walking in the opposite direction. The woman was dressed in a floor-length white dress. The man wore tuxedo pants and no shirt, a leather collar attached to a leash around his neck. His hands were behind his back, obviously bound or cuffed or restrained in some manner. Although both wore masks, there was something vaguely familiar about them. Regina had the distinct feeling that she'd seen them before—that they were celebrities of some kind.

Sebastian found an empty room and gestured for her to step inside.

The room was tiny, like a cabin on a ship. It had a twin bed, a flat-screen TV, and a table filled with a disturbing array of bondage items: whips, clamps, cuffs, gags, blindfolds, boxes of unopened sex toys, and a bowl filled with condoms.

“This seems like a bad idea,” she said.

“Trust, Regina. Now remove your skirt.”

She looked at him, but his eyes were cold and set. He was in command mode, and she knew there was no debating him. She was okay taking off the hoop skirt, because she still had the short silk skirt on underneath it. But that was as far as she was going.

Regina unhooked the skirt and stepped out of it. He pushed it aside.

“Kneel in front of the bed,” he told her.

She got down on her knees, and he removed her mask, replacing it with a blindfold. Her heart began to beat faster.

“Hands behind your back.” She felt rope around her wrists, and he cinched it tight. It was less comfortable than the cuffs he used in his apartment.

“Stand up,” he said, helping her to her feet. “Now lie on the bed on your stomach.” He helped her get into position, her head tilted to the side so she could breathe.

Then she felt him unzip the underskirt.

“This isn't a good ide—”

“Don't speak again until we leave this room,” he said. He tugged on the silk skirt and she obediently lifted her hips, enabling him to pull it down her thighs, over her knees, then past her feet. She was exposed from the waist down, wearing only black lace underwear.

She heard Sebastian's footsteps retreating.

“Where are you going?” she asked. This was met with a crack of pain against her thighs as the single tail of a whip answered her.

“I said no talking. Trust, Regina.”

She winced in pain, and her mind slipped into the fantasy of his fingers spreading her open. Only the sweet pressure of his fingers or tongue on her clit would stop the pain.

There were no more sounds in the room. She heard people walking up and down the hall, and she cringed knowing that they were looking in and seeing her, as she had seen that bound woman in the first room. Her only consolation was that she was anonymous, and she was not naked.

Yet.

She didn't know if Sebastian was there, waiting before removing more of her clothes, or if he had left her to return to the party downstairs. It took all of her willpower not to call out for him. Her arms were beginning to ache, the ropes already biting into her wrists. She realized that she was squirming, that it would hurt less if she stayed perfectly still.

Regina tried not to panic. She thought of the one thing he kept saying over and over about the night: trust. He would not just leave her there—at least, not for too long.

She could hear the music from downstairs. Florence and the Machine. Regina tried to lose herself in it, to imagine being somewhere else. But every thought turned sexual. She imagined the blindfold being removed and Sebastian's hard cock there, at the tip of her lips. She could stick out her tongue and feel the salty warmth of him, pulsing with blood for her. . . .

She heard footsteps reenter the room. Her heart started to pound wildly. She wanted to call out his name, to make sure it was Sebastian, but she knew she couldn't.

And then she felt hands stroking her ass, lightly dancing over the lace of her panties. Was it Sebastian's touch? She couldn't tell, and this thought horrified her. And then she remembered what he had said just before they'd walked into the hotel:
The only thing you have to know about tonight is that no one will touch you but me.

The memory of this comment was the only thing that kept her from screaming as the hand traveled between her legs, slipping into her underwear, one finger lightly stroking the lips of her pussy. Her heart pounded so hard she was afraid she would stop breathing.

And above all, trust me.

Trust, Regina
.

The finger pressed inside of her. It felt undeniably good, and yet there was nothing identifiable about the touch. It went in, it went out. Her mind held on to the fear that it was a stranger, but her body betrayed her, moving with the hand, greedy for an orgasm. And yet there was only so far she could go; she kept waiting for some clue that it was, in fact, Sebastian. And when nothing happened to give her this, her mind won out, and her body froze.

The touching stopped. Her underwear snapped back in place while her insides throbbed, aching for satisfaction.

She was afraid that the person would leave and that she would be left alone, wondering who had just been touching her. She couldn't bear it. She bit her lip to keep from calling out.

Just when she thought that she would lose it . . . that she would break her silence and therefore exhibit a lack of trust—she felt her blindfold being untied and pulled off of her face.

She opened her eyes to find Sebastian kneeling beside the bed, his eyes searching and intense.

Regina felt such a flood of relief, such an uncoiling of tension, that she started to cry.

“Regina, don't be upset. I told you no one would touch you but me. Didn't you believe me?”

He untied her arms, and she straightened up slowly, rubbing her wrists. “I did . . . but how could I know for sure? And just thinking that people were walking by . . . looking at me.” She was sitting up now, glancing warily at the door. Sebastian stood up and closed it.

“We'll get in trouble,” she said.

“Sssh . . . you have got to calm down,” he said, sitting next to her and putting his arm around her. “I didn't mean to upset you. I like to experiment with limits. It . . . can bring people closer. It can heighten things.”

“It's okay,” she said. And she meant it.

“Do you want to leave?” he asked.

“Yes,” she told him. And she meant that, too.