“Friday, your place.” There was already a germ of an idea forming about what she might pick up at Veronica’s store to play with.
“What time?”
“I’m not sure. I want you waiting by eight. I’ll get there when I get there.” She walked to the door and turned with her hand on the knob. More thoughts about what they could do were popping up in her mind. “I’ll be hungry, so have dinner ready, and I want you in your underwear.”
“My underwear?” he repeated on a laugh.
She gave him a stern look. “Just your underwear. Understand?”
He sobered up. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good boy.” She opened the door and stepped through. Turning on her heel, she reminded him of one more thing. “And Kyle? Stay away from Doctor Molvado.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he repeated, but it didn’t sound quite so sincere this time.
Regan strode to the elevator. Damn him. He had better obey her about this and about the rest of the investigation. She didn’t want another dead man on her hands, and more than that, she didn’t want Kyle to be the killer’s next victim. He was beginning to be more to her than a weird kind of lover. He was starting to really matter.
****
An hour later, Regan smoothed the lines of her leather dress and stared at herself in the dressing room mirror of the club. She hadn’t quite managed to recreate the look Veronica forced on her the previous day, but she supposed it was good enough. She wasn’t trying to impress anyone. Kyle wouldn’t be among her customers this afternoon.
The thought of the man added a layer of moistness to her already twitchy, wet pussy. Her hips swayed of their own accord. She was dying to get the guy inside her, and Friday seemed a long way off. Looking forward to the end of her work week wasn’t like her. Usually she was the last one out the door, reluctant to leave any portion of her job undone even for one night, let alone an entire weekend.
This change in her nature disturbed her. Kyle Ramsey disturbed her. And, yet, there were only two choices. She could either shut down her growing interest in him with ruthlessness or pursue the relationship with her typical aggressive enthusiasm. Given that she had made a quick stop at Veronica’s shop and a bag full of sexual goodies was now stuffed in her locker at the club, it was clear which way she was going.
“So, you’re the new girl,” a female voice said.
Shifting her gaze from her own image, Regan regarded a large, African-American woman through her reflection. “I’m Regan.”
The other woman sat down at the make-up counter and started picking up various tubes and brushes. “I’m Cleo.”
“Nice to meet you.”
Regan watched as her companion liberally applied eye-shadow. Cleo’s outfit was equally dramatic, a strapless, leather Playboy Bunny kind of suit from which her ample breasts and muscular ass popped out. Her boots went all the way up her thighs, stopping just short of her crotch. While Cleo appeared to be about Regan’s age, her face had a tired, worn look. Regan imagined the woman had worked in places like Nemesis for some time. She would undoubtedly have a lot of information to give about the lifestyle.
Adopting a nonchalant stance against the wall, she began subtle questioning. “I’ve been hoping to have a chance to talk to some of you others working here. This is all new to me, and to be honest, I need some tips.” She gave the other woman a look, as if she were annoyed with herself for being so helpless.
Cleo batted her eyelashes to gauge her efforts before slanting a look Regan’s way. “Sure, honey, I don’t mind helping out a new girl.” She opened a compact and began brushing blush on her wide cheeks. “But don’t think there’s anything to this job. These guys are all pathetic. They want their mommy substitute to paddle their asses so they can go out and fuck others over without feeling guilty. It’s a game to them. Give them what they want, pick up your paycheck, and go home.”
Regan shifted her stance as she contemplated Cleo’s answer. She was beginning to think she was wasting her time at the club. The killer was certainly someone who viewed Femdom as more than a job or a game.
“I’m afraid I’m going to hurt them,” she prodded.
Cleo barked out a laugh. “Hurt them? Please.” She dismissed the idea with a wave of a tube of lipstick and applied a large swath of color to her lips. “With the toys we have here, no one’s going to get hurt. No matter how much these dicks carry on crying and screaming, believe me it’s all an act. They don’t known real pain. They couldn’t handle real pain.”
Apparently satisfied with her make-up, she stood up and tugged her one-piece down over her ass cheeks a bit. She turned to Regan and looked her up and down. “You got a good look going for a newbie.”
Regan smiled at the compliment. “Thanks, Veronica picked it all out.”
Cleo nodded. “She knows her business. You look strong enough to pack quite a wallop, too.”
“I like to lift weights,” Regan admitted.
“Well, if you ever want to put those muscles to use in a legit Femdom setting, let me know. I’m into the real scene.”
“What scene is that?” Regan frowned. This conversation was starting to be more interesting.
Cleo shrugged. “People who are serious about pain, both inflicting it and receiving it, know how to find each other. You can’t have an open business for it, because the cops would shut it down. They don’t like adults making decisions about their own bodies, but they let little girls get the shit kicked out of them by grown men without doing a thing.” The woman’s eyes went hard and dark as coal with this last statement, and Regan knew Cleo was talking about herself and not a hypothetical.
“This is a way to even the score, isn’t it?” she said in a soft, conspiratorial tone.
Cleo’s smile in response was bitter. “Yeah, it is. Don’t let it get out of hand, here, though,” she warned. “Remember, this is a game. You want to make a guy scream in true pain, have him thank you for it afterward and actually mean it, let me know. I’ll hook you up.”
“Thanks, I’ll think about it.” Before Regan could form a follow-up question to pursue this developing lead, Cleo turned away.
“Showtime. I’ve got a regular coming in five minutes. He likes to pretend he’s a plantation owner, and I’m a slave who’s getting revenge for all the times he’s raped me.” She stopped and tossed another hard look over her shoulder at Regan. “As if he could ever understand what it’s liked to be raped and imagine what a woman would do to the man if the tables were reversed. See you around, honey.”
With that parting shot, Cleo was gone, and Regan was left wondering whether she had a new suspect in the murders.
Chapter Seven
Kyle turned the filets over on the broiler and checked the time. It was eight-thirty and still no sign of Regan. Although she had said she didn’t know when she would get there, he hoped it would be soon. He was taking a chance with the meat and the potatoes and asparagus he had roasting in the oven. If she took much longer, the food would be either cold or overdone, but he took pride in everything he did, including cooking. He felt it was beneath his dignity to serve something cold or simple for dinner for his date.
It didn’t matter anyway. If Regan was pleased with the meal, he would be pleased as well. If she weren’t, he might be punished, and he could no longer deny that the idea of it excited him. His cock, which had been neglected at his own volition for the last few days, stood at attention at the mere thought.
“Down boy,” he muttered under his breath. He was wearing his boxers as ordered, and even though being single and having cooked in only his underwear before, he still felt weird because he knew a fully-clothed Regan was going to walk in on him. He couldn’t help wondering what, if anything, she had planned for him this evening. He hoped that whatever else it involved, she’d let him finally put his dick inside her. Blowjobs were damn good, but nothing was better than seating his cock in the tight, soft warmth of a woman’s body.
As he took the tray of vegetables out of the wall oven, the intercom buzzed. His heart and cock jerked simultaneously at the sound and what it meant. He forced his breath to steady and pressed the intercom button. “Regan?”
“Yes,” came the cool reply and just the sound of the woman’s voice was enough to harden his erection even more.
“Come on in.” Undressed as he was, he pushed the button to release the inner security door. Then he opened his unit’s door and stood aside as the woman who perversely held sway over him breezed into his home.
“Hi,” she said in an easy tone. “I won’t ask if you still want to see me tonight.” She gave his cock a quick squeeze. “It’s obvious you do, and you get points for enthusiasm.”
He wanted to kiss her, just a little peck in greeting, but he didn’t. Waiting for permission was already becoming ingrained in him. “Thanks. Although I can’t take credit for my erection. That’s your doing. My own personal dose of Viagra.”
She smiled at his remark, and moving farther into the condo, she tossed a large, plastic bag on the floor. “I brought along some things for later,” she said when he scrutinized the bag, and his heart picked up speed in anticipation of what it contained. Regan sniffed toward the kitchen. “What are you fixing for dinner?”
“Steak. Shit.” He hustled back to the oven. The filets were done, and he hoped not overcooked. He pulled the broiler out and placed it on a trivet.
“Looks like you went to a lot of trouble,” Regan leaned against the doorjamb, arms crossed in front of her chest.
Kyle shrugged as he plated the food. “Not really.”
“Maybe not for the women you’re used to having up here, but I’m more of a burger and pizza kind of date.”
He heard the note of insecurity in her voice, and it touched his heart. This cop and he were from very different backgrounds, and yet it mattered not one wit to him. “You’re worth the effort, Regan,” he assured her over his shoulder and was rewarded by an appreciative grin.
The expression lasted only a millisecond before it was replaced by the hard-nosed Domme he was getting used to. “I see you were a good boy about your underwear.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “Does it please you?”
“Yes. I’m hungry, though. We eat first, then we play.” The way she said the word play sent tingles up his spine in anticipation. His cock twitched.
“As you wish. I thought we’d eat at the dining table. If you’d like to be seated, I’ll bring the plates of food over.”
She nodded and did as he suggested. When he joined her moments later with the food in hand, he was pleased to see she had taken the seat at the head of the table as he intended. Her jacket was slung over another chair as was her gun holster. He put her plate down in front of her and sat in the place set to her right.
“Would you like some wine?” he asked.
He’d opened a bottle of Borolo earlier to breath. Although he wasn’t sure a woman like Regan would recognize the label or even appreciate the sophistication of its taste, it didn’t matter. He wanted to give her the best he could. It was a matter of pride, yes, but more, he felt affection for this woman. She was becoming important to him on more than a sexual level.
“Sure.” She took a sip after he poured some in her glass. “It’s very nice. As I’m sure you can imagine, wine is not my thing, either, but I like the taste.”
“That’s all that matters with wine,” he assured her.
He watched as she tucked into her meal and was delighted by how much she was obviously enjoying it. He allowed himself time to savor some of his own meal before trying for conversation. If their relationship was to be founded on more than bed games, they needed to get to know each other better.
“How was your week? I mean after you left me the other day?” he clarified teasingly.
Regan swallowed her mouthful. “Not as productive as I would have liked.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. The club’s not panning out for you?”
She hesitated, as if pondering how much to tell him, then shook her head. “Not really.”
“You must at least enjoy playing Mistress Regan,” he teased again.
She rolled her eyes at him. “No, I don’t. It’s boring and hard work, and the men are less than appealing for the most part. They’re not like you.” She scraped her forefinger up his thigh.
His breath burst out as if he’d been punched in the gut, and he had to take a gulp of wine to ease his suddenly dry mouth. “Christ, I never would have thought I’d get off on this kind of thing.”
“What kind of thing?” she baited him.
“Letting a woman dominate me, humiliate me, hurt me, as you well know. It’s like a drug, one hit and I’m hooked.”
Regan looked at him thoughtfully over the rim of her wine glass. “You’ve really never done this before with another woman?”
“Never,” he confirmed. “I’ve always been the one to take charge in bed. My ex-wife expected it.”
“Is that what led to the divorce?”
“No, I was raised to be a take charge kind of guy, professionally and in my personal relationships.” He gave her a wry smile. “I went into my marriage knowing it was my responsibility to protect and provide for my family. As the man of the house, it was my duty to shoulder all the burden so my wife wouldn’t have to worry about anything, including when and how we would make love. I was comfortable with the role in all its aspects. At least, I thought I was up until now.”
He took another bite of food and considered how quickly his expectations in a personal relationship had shifted dramatically. “Anyway, Julie wanted out of the marriage, because she said I worked too much and was never home. Funny thing was she never complained about the money I brought home for her to spend.”
He shook his head and toyed with his own glass. “She also said she felt neglected, and yet she didn’t seem too interested in my attention. I can’t imagine what I would have done if she had greeted me at the door one day with a whip in hand, barking orders.”
“You wouldn’t have accepted her authority, because she wouldn’t have been strong enough for you,” Regan observed.
“You may be right,” he agreed. “I can’t say the divorce was a bad thing. Even my relationship with my daughters is better, because I get them every other weekend and make sure my schedule is clear to spend time with them. When I was living at home, I rarely saw them. It took the divorce to make me see how much I was missing.”