She stood at the front entrance of an old industrial brick warehouse, having been converted to posh flats in a now gentrified former slum. A small bulb lit the door and intercom. Behind her, darkness engulfed the visitor parking lot, occasionally lit amber by a few dim street lamps. Beyond, an empty sidewalk and wharf looked over the bay. It had rained, leaving everything slick and wet, with small puddles scattered about the tarmac. A light fog still hung, musky in the air.
Years ago her parents had warned about this part of town. That's not a suitable place for a proper young woman, her father had said. Especially at night, her mother added, with a nod in agreement. But now they're retired and off to Portugal. Development happens, prices rise, the rich move in. So she didn't think they'd be surprised by how the place had changed. On a fixed income, it's why they'd left town to begin with. No, they'd be surprised - dismayed, even - by why she'd come here.
To meet a man who'd posted one of those ads. The kind of thing any sane girl would click shut and never think twice of again. The words hadn't been salacious or pornographic or crass, but its ideas and imagery had been. The man had left no doubt to just what kind of relationship he sought. Kinky is the word. Strange, to be kind. Downright sick and perverse is how everyone else thought it. Something her parents would turn away from in disgust.
He'd written a tantalizing anonymous solicitation in an Internet nether region she perused only in the deepest privacy of home, late at night, in bed, when lonely and needful. Something indiscreet and shameful, sent out to the world like a message in a bottle thrown to sea. It had been written for anyone and everyone, but seemed to have been meant just for her. His words stirred such deep cravings she'd had to respond.
Yet the universe sometimes plays cruel tricks. This anonymous man wasn't some anonymous after all. And had she known that at the time, she'd never have responded. For that anyone she knew might learn the wicked desires she felt brought terror to her heart. She'd sought out an anonymous rendezvous, not one with an acquaintance.
So when they'd first met at that cafe, after a slew of salacious messages establishing lewd intent, it had been a total shock. You? You! Oh my, it's you.
Yet here she stood, breath rasping, her finger wavering by his door buzzer. What the hell was she doing? Turn around and she could walk away now. It's not like she's obliged. And nothing's happened yet. There's nothing to report. Nothing to make public. Nothing she's already guilty of. Except for the excitement and arousal and those damnable butterflies that continued fluttering within her. The shame of her own compulsions and needs.
Before she could decide, the security door buzzed unlocked. "Come in," said his voice through the intercom. And without hesitation, utterly mesmerized and unable to resist, she opened the door and stepped inside.
His flat was on the fourth floor. There was a lift, but for some reason she took the stairs. Click-clack went the heels of her boots as she climbed, echoing through the stairwell like life in slow motion. For some reason she wanted to savor the moment. This before-time. As if it was the minutes right before losing her teenage virginity.
He stood looking down into the stairwell by his doorway, appraising her with a steady gaze.
"Hi," she whispered, with an hesitant wave.
He merely raised an eyebrow. Then, as she approached, he held open his door for her and said softly confident, "Please come in."
Through the door, his flat was one of those open area modern designs. A kitchen with steel sink and gas stove, granite countertops, and all the appliances. A tall counter with a few high bar stools separated the kitchen from the main room. To her left, an oak table with four chairs and behind that sliding glass doors out to a balcony. To her right, a matching fabric sofa and love seat, and single plush chair surrounded a tasteful minimalist square coffee table. Track lighting lit a few paintings hung on the walls. There was a bookcase, with some books and a few knick knacks. A hallway beyond that, presumably to more private rooms.
It all looked so normal. She didn't know what she'd expected. Meat hooks hanging from the ceiling? Still, this didn't seem the kind of place a sick sexual pervert would own. Was it?
"May I take your coat?" He held out a hand.
His voice startled her and she quickly turned to face him. He crooked his head with an expression of bemusement, hand still out for her coat. "Oh, yes," she said, trying to find words that didn't sound idiotic. She lowered the hood of her tartan wool cape, undid a light knot at her neck and slipped out, handing it over along with an umbrella. He hung them on a standing coat rack by the door.
"Would you like a glass of wine?" He asked, stepping toward the kitchen.
It was then she'd stopped appraising his things and looked the man over instead. He wore a simple pair of trousers and slip-on leather shoes. A light wool sleeveless pullover and button down shirt. A basic short haircut with a bit of pepper gray showing. Wire framed glasses. He was trim. Entirely respectable looking. It should set her at ease and yet seemed to make everything all the more strange.
He gave her a quizzical look, two empty wine glasses by the stem.
"Oh. Um. Yes," she said, with a little nervous laugh. "Please."
"Red or white?"
"Whatever's best."
"Definitely red then," he said, reaching past a stool for a bottle on the counter. He poured two glasses and handed her one.
It was a light wine with a fruity aroma and when she put the glass to her lips an aftertaste of black currant lingered on her palate. "Mmmm," she said with a nod. "Very good."
"Shall we sit?" He motioned to the couch and love seat.
She nodded and when he led the way he lightly touched the small of her back and it sent a shock along her spine. She chose the love seat and set down her glass at the table. Then, as he sat at the chair facing her, she smoothed down her dress, straightened her back, and clasped her hands together in her lap. The room grew uncomfortably quiet.
He was being so damned polite. Of course, she hadn't known what to expect. Would he rip her clothes off and drag her to his room to violently ravish her as soon as she'd arrived? A part of her wanted that. Wanted it badly. But she supposed that wasn't his plan. So then would he at least make some kind of ham-fisted pass at her? Something - anything - to indicate interest?
He sat there looking her over with a seemingly indifferent gaze, evaluating without leering. The air got thick and her nerves began to fray until she wanted to scream.
"Elaine," he said.
His speech cut through the air like a knife and she glanced up into his eyes. She bit her lip.
"Elaine," he repeated. "You know why you're here." He paused for a moment in thought. "Don't you?"
She couldn't answer and just quickly nodded.
"So then, why are you here?"
The discomfort and nervousness became unbearable. She wished he'd just strip her and do whatever sick thing he'd planned. To relinquish everything and be used like a rag doll. She wouldn't have to face such questions then. "I, umm," she stammered, digging nails into her clasped hands. "To be your..." she looked up with a pained expression.
"Slave?" He answered for her.
She glanced away at the word and her cheeks burned in shame.
"You're not ready for that," he said, gently.
A knot formed in her belly and she feared he might throw her out. Had she displeased him? Done something wrong?
"You're here," he continued, "asking for my help in exploring these inner needs you've discovered you have."
She furrowed her brow.
"I could drag you into my bedroom right now. Fuck you silly. And you'd let me." He said it all matter of factly and she frowned at the truth of his words. "But that's not what you really need."
Something welled up deep within her and she gave a stern eye. "So you think you know what I need?" It came out angry and petulant, though when the words had formed in her mind she'd just wanted to ask. But somehow, it had become a challenge. And as soon as the words came out mean she felt embarrassed, which only made her more insolent.
He smiled and leaned forward. "Would you be here if you thought I didn't?"
Everything turned upside down and she immediately stood, defiant, crossing her arms. "Maybe I should just go."
"You're always free to leave," he replied with a shrug, standing as well. "But hear me out for a moment."
"I'm listening," she said, but it came out like a sneer.
"Close your eyes," he said.
She rolled her eyes instead.
"Trust me," he implored.
She sighed, cleared her throat, and finally closed her eyes as though it was the stupidest thing she'd ever been asked to do.
"Give it a few," he said.
In darkness, her anger slowly faded. In its place, those butterflies started fluttering in earnest again. And her nipples hardened, irritatingly stiff against the light caress of her soft dress. It was a nice piece, she thought, seeking distraction. A chic double-strap below-the-knee all cotton blue and white block print with a super-high thread count from Missoni. It had been all the rage last year. Back then the thing had sold off the rack for a cool £800 new, but she'd bought it used off ebay for £120 a few months back. Because scoring crumbs off bored stupid-rich Londoners is the only way an average girl can afford the good stuff.
And she'd only worn it at his request. Though he did just ask for something that would accentuate her lovely figure. But what did that mean? Be not a slutty cocktail nor some old prudish marm thing, of course. Elegant but not too expensive, which since she'd paid so little going upscale should be a big win with the man. And she'd spent simply hours getting ready. Bathing, teasing her hair, applying makeup and perfume, trying damn near every dress in her ward-
"Elaine," he said.
