Must Love Music

Gayle launched into an explanation of the difference between the front office systems used by the sales people, and the back office systems which ran automatically, collecting and compiling data and taking appropriate actions, such as issuing bills or prompting follow-up work. She kept the front office systems patched and running, holding the sales people’s hands and talking them through the various screens when they had to do anything unfamiliar. But to the back office systems, she was a god.

“And do you like being a god?” Rikard asked.

A joking reply was on the tip of her tongue, when she realized he was asking a serious question. Fortunately, the waiter delivered their drinks, and she bought some time to think by stirring the whipped cream into her chai, licking the spoon, cradling the mug in her hands, blowing on it, then taking her first sip.

“No, I don’t think so,” she finally answered. “I like not having to clean up other people’s messes, or waste my time redoing something because a sales guy with a one-week database class behind him thought he could ‘improve’ the system. But that’s not the same.”

“Good. Because if we decide to go forward with this, there’s only room for one god, and it’ll be me.”

She trembled at the dark promise in his voice, her stomach bouncing like she’d swallowed rubber balls instead of silky chai. “Okay,” she whispered.

“You have whipped cream on your lip.”

She licked it off, feeling his eyes tracking the movement of her tongue behind the green shield of his sunglasses. Suddenly her lips felt parched, and she nervously wet them.

Rikard lifted his coffee and took a hasty sip.

“Speaking of going forward, I’ve never done this before. What would we do next?”

“You’ve never been in a BDSM relationship, or you’ve never started one via a personal ad?”

“A little of both, I think. I tried some bondage games with my old boyfriend, after we’d been lovers for a while, and really enjoyed them. But that was on top of an existing relationship. I never had it be the relationship.”

“We wouldn’t jump straight into our first scene. There needs to be trust on both sides—you trusting that I have your best interests at heart, and me trusting that you’ll tell me how you’re really feeling during a scene. So I’d start by asking you to do things, little things, like wear a certain item of clothing, or sit a certain way. I’d touch you, non-sexually, and learn your reactions to things. And we’d talk, about what you wanted, what you feared. Then, when we felt comfortable with each other, we’d move on to scene work, where I’d force you to face your fears and desires. Again, starting small, with things like binding your body but leaving your breasts exposed, and tickling your nipples with feathers, furs, and other things, until you came from the pleasure.” The corner of his mouth quirked in his lopsided grin again. “It would take a very long time.”

Gayle’s breasts tightened, the nipples hardening and stretching her clinging sweater, as if he was already teasing them. She imagined ghostly caresses—wisps of feathers, soft strokes of fur, a quick rasp of something rough like sandpaper, a sharp nip of teeth.

She gasped, her panties growing not just damp but actually wet. “No, I don’t think it would take long at all.”

Rikard’s smile broadened into smug self-satisfaction as he leaned back in his chair and studied her through lidded eyes. She felt like a partially devoured bowl of cream being examined by a not-yet-sated cat.

Yet somehow, the blatantly sexual expression didn’t trouble her the way his earlier smiles had. With a jolt of surprise, she recognized what had bothered her previously. Now that his eyes were half-closed, they were even. When he smiled with amusement, one was slightly wider than the other. That was why his crooked grin didn’t disturb her. She expected one eye to close more when he only moved one side of his mouth.

Her logical nature immediately kicked in, tossing out hypotheses as fast as she could test them. Coupled with the sunglasses, and the way he sat with the light behind him, she suspected he’d had some sort of eye treatment recently. Maybe he’d gotten laser eye surgery to cure his nearsightedness, or been given some sort of drops that affected his eye muscles for an infection.

As if recognizing her change of mood, he straightened and returned to his previous easygoing manner. “There are a few other things. I mentioned my fondness for leather in my ad.”

“Yes. But I wasn’t sure what you meant by that.”

“When I touch you, I’ll be wearing gloves.” He extended his hand, displaying the soft leather driving glove that encased his skin. “And I also have a mask of black leather that covers most of my face. Without the mask, I’m just Rikard, your equal and, hopefully, your friend. In the mask, however, I’m Master Rikard, and expect your complete and total obedience.”

His voice darkened and deepened, hinting at dire consequences should she fail to obey Master Rikard. He made no movement, other than returning his outstretched hand to wrap around his coffee mug, which could hardly be considered threatening. Yet she trembled in fear. And excitement.

“Obedience like we talked about. Little things until we trust each other.”

“Yes.” He paused, then added, “Since this is the first time you’ve entered a relationship with someone unknown to you, you’d probably feel safer the first time if you set up a safe call with a friend. Every hour or so, check in with someone you trust who knows where you’ve gone and who you are with, and can inform the police if you don’t respond to her calls.”

Gayle blushed. “I already did that. My friend Carrie will be calling in about ten more minutes.”

The crooked grin tugged at his lips again. “I hope you anticipate all of my other suggestions as well.”

Reaching into his jacket’s inside chest pocket, he withdrew a business card which he placed on the table in front of her.

Rikard Sorenson, Composer. Below that, in smaller print, was listed his phone number and address, a semi-rural area to the west of the city that was in transition from farms to housing developments. She’d looked at houses there when she’d moved down, but they were executive homes well outside of her price range.

“Those jingles must pay really well to afford the rent out there.”

He shrugged. “There’s my phone number. Take the night to think it over, then call me with your answer. If you want to go ahead, I’ll expect you at my house tomorrow at one o’clock.”