The Janus Trap

The huge desk taking up most of the floor space in his office was one of a kind. Constructed mostly of Carpathian Elm and Ebony, it had cost him somewhere in the neighborhood of two hundred thousand. The ergonomically designed chair he sat in was covered with fine smooth black calfskin that both cradled and supported his body in comfort and in style. That had set him back almost ten grand alone. The computer where he sat idly scrolling through web pages was a top of the line machine he'd had custom built. Another ten grand.

Looking around the room, Joshua Michael Halyard was satisfied with this portion of his life. His office, like most of his house, was finely appointed with expensive woodwork and antiques that had caught his eye.

And books, of course. He had a love of actual bound books. Unlike most of the people of his generation he had never succumbed to the lure of electronic reading. He preferred having and actual bound book in his hands when he read for pleasure. He loved the feel and smell of paper and ink and the tactile pleasure of turning actual pages as his eyes consumed the words printed upon them. Three walls of his private office were floor to ceiling bookshelves piled full of rare and first edition books by all of his favorite authors.

The last insurance audit had placed the value of his books alone at five million dollars. Not as much as some of the professional "collectors" but more than enough for his own personal library.

In pursuit of his own personal gratification and to flaunt his new status, Joshua had laid out over fifty million dollars in purchasing, remodeling and furnishing to his tastes the old four story brownstone on W. 35th street in New York City. The upkeep of the house and the salaries for his staff cost him a quarter of a million dollars a year.

And let's not even talk about taxes. There were accountants for all of that. He paid them enough each year not to be bothered with the details.

The woman in the office with him at the moment had cost him nothing at all. Not a thin dime. As a matter of fact, she had transferred her usual ten thousand dollar fee to his account before she was even allowed in the door.

Millions of adoring fans all over the world knew her face and her name. Posters of her in tight clothes and negligee adorned the walls of adolescent boys the world over. All of her movies were blockbusters and the paparazzi swarmed wherever she went. She was only seen in the "best" places, usually on the arm of one or another hot and upcoming Hollywood stud or billionaire CEO. There had to be at least eight figures in any movie contract before her agent would even show her the script. She was, at this point in her career, a brand unto herself and at the top of her game.

If her adoring public could only see her now...

That elegant red hair which was always seen so perfectly coiffured was disheveled and limp with sweat, adhering to her forehead and trailing over her shoulders and back. Not a speck of makeup could be seen anywhere on her face, something that she would never have allowed in the public eye. Those elegant green eyes were red and bloodshot, the lids above and below puffy and wet with tears. Close to a hundred grand in jewelry and another ten in designer clothing lay stuffed in a locker down in his basement. She was such a good customer that he had graciously put her name on the locker for her. It was the least he could do.

That sweet little body... The body that made tens of millions of males hard and almost as many females wet... The body she spent millions on with gym equipment and personal trainers and yoga instructors and cosmetic surgeons... it was a sight to see. The girl was naked except for a plain leather collar around her neck. A simple chain leash dangled from the collar down to the floor. Abrasions around her wrists and ankles showed evidence of her having been restrained. Even though he used soft restraints for her to keep the damage to a minimum, she always fought back and struggled, injuring that fine skin however slightly. She was, after all, an action movie kind of girl and quite strong for her frame.

There wasn't much of that exquisite skin which wasn't marked in one way or another. Even her beautiful face bore the imprints of his fingers where he had slapped her. Something no man in her life had ever done except if it was written into the script. Looking down her body, Joshua could catalog and identify each of the red marks and small bruises on her skin. Even the order they had occurred. The general redness of the flogger. The small red kisses from the clothespins and clips which made little tracks all the way down her body. The rectangular imprints from the crop. The circular signature of the paddle laid over with the longer stripes from the leather tawse. And of course the long angry red welts from the whip. He didn't care that much for the whip himself but she begged him for it each and every time. As much as he didn't like using the whip, he did so love listening to her beg and plead for more.

Then there were the marks that weren't quite so evident without a much closer and personal inspection. If a doctor were to examine her he would most likely come to the conclusion that she was the victim of a particularly vicious rape. Patches of her scalp were red and traumatized from where he had pulled her hair. Small bruises on her neck and shoulders showed the size of his fingertips and the length of his fingers. Both her vulva and anus were raw and swollen, showing signs of multiple penetrations with objects of various sizes. Her body chemistry would reveal signs of exhaustion and slight dehydration.

She was in heaven.

Even though a good portion of her body was radiating waves of pain in varying degrees, the endorphins rushing throughout her system were disguising the aches with the twinges and little sparks of a slowly fading sexual bliss. That was why she came to Joshua, of course. None of the pretty boy actors or sports figures she occasionally shared her bed with had ever given her as deep an ecstasy as one visit to his basement wonderland. After the first session she'd been hooked. So much so he had been forced to limit her visits to once every three months. Longer if she was away filming a new movie.

Once she had offered him first one hundred thousand, then two, then five, to fly to California and stay with her while she was working. Knowing that was impossible, he naturally declined.

With him, she was not going to get her way. No matter what.

So now she was in the final act of their sessions. Naked and bruised wearing nothing but a collar and a leash, swollen knees pressed into the hardwood floor. Those million dollar eyes begging him for what she wanted. What she needed so very badly. Her hands and lips working on him in desperation, every inch of her body pleading with him for this last boon.

The one last thing that no other man had ever done to her in her life. Rather that she had never allowed another man to do to her. Naturally it was the one thing he demanded each and every time.

"Mmmm..." He murmured. "Yes, girl. Such a good slave." Joshua lifted his hips and shot his seed into her throat. "Swallow it all, girl. Don't lose a drop." Breathing deeply through her nose, she dutifully swallowed his come over and over again as she had been directed. The final act of humiliation and submission that always ended their sessions.

For her, it was as if he had flipped a light switch. As soon as he trickled to a stop and began to go soft in her mouth, her eyelids began to droop. Moments later his member slipped from her lips and she softly toppled to the floor, asleep in seconds.

Sighing, Joshua zipped up his pants and pressed a button under the edge of his desk as he stood. Once he left the room his servants would slip in and take the unconscious girl back down to the basement dressing rooms. There they would wash her and tend to her abrasions and get her dressed again in her clothes and carry her out to place her in the back seat of her waiting limo which had been summoned when he pushed the bell.

In six or eight or ten hours from now she would arrive in Aspen or Switzerland or Tuscany on a "sabbatical" for a few weeks while she healed and rested and studied the script for her next film. He always thought that his sessions gave her new energy in her movies. She always seemed so vibrant and alive...

While the servants were tending to that one, Joshua ensured the digital recordings got stored in his secure server in the basement vault. Each and every recording of each and every client was filmed from several different angles from beginning to end and stored in his server. Not for the purposes of blackmail. He was making more than enough money as it was. For his own protection in case one of his clients tried to cover their activities by falsely accusing him of assault.

After all, that sweet body he had so brutalized was insured by the studios for millions. If she was unable to fulfill a contract due to injuries at his hands any court in the world would agree she had sustained them willingly. And paid him handsomely for his time and effort to boot. He was covered.

Then it was off to the shower and bed. Ten hours at a thousand dollars an hour was good money and good fun, but it was still almost as exhausting for him as it had been for her.

It was a good thing she only came by every three months.

One

The internet. Boon to some and bane to others. Fortunes rose and fell through it's real and virtual connections each day. Pundits, politicians and plain folks debated it's utility and publicly abhorred it's seamy underside while making use of it to do so.

Not one of them even acknowledged the hypocrisy of their actions.

To a young Josh Halyard, twenty years old and living on his own for the first time, the internet was a treasure trove. A treasure trove of treasure maps, each leading to more and more. When he wasn't working, Josh buried himself in the internet, diving deep into things that drove his imagination and wonder. Many of the things he researched, like many millions of others his age, were the things which drove his sexual fantasies. The world wide web was there waiting to welcome him with open arms.

As long as he could remember, Josh was fascinated with bondage. When he was young, bondage was the only word he knew to describe his fantasies. Then he discovered S/M. Then BDSM. Then B/D and D/s and all of the permutations in between. So many flavors to choose from, it was a bit intimidating.

When he was young and he pondered on his sexual proclivities, he would think "I'm a weirdo." Then as he began to dive into the strange world he had chosen to abide in his impression changed. Now he thought "I'm not really all that weird. Tons and tons of people do this stuff. Most of them just don't publicly admit to it." And he wondered "How many beds in this world have a pair of handcuffs hiding underneath? How many nightstands contain rope and blindfolds and those cheap leather whips? Millions?"

Multiples of millions, as it turned out. All of them seeking more titillation for their private little kinks.

Erotica.

The literary bent.

It was what grabbed him and kept Joshua the most intrigued. While pictures on those porn sites were sometimes titillating, the pictures in his mind were so much sharper and more exciting. A well written story could keep him entertained for hours. In keeping with his tactile love of the printed word he had spend the best portion of an entire paycheck on the best and fastest printer he could find, several cases of paper and a small binding machine so he could keep his favorite tales always on hand, even when he wasn't online.

What dismayed him was wading through the piles and piles of trash to find those small gems which so fit his needs. Hundreds and hundreds of stories were scanned and discarded and Joshua's frustration often reached the breaking point. Several times he had walked away from his computer in disgust, vowing to never again wade in the cesspools of the internet.

But like any addict, he always returned.

Wanting more.

And more.

Interlude One

Dog was in pain.

In several places.

So much pain which caused whimpers of distress to leak unheeded from it's lips.

Dog was in heaven.

The Trainer was what the device was referred as by Dog's Owner. A metal frame on the floor with steel cuffs locked around Dog's wrists and ankles, keeping it on knees and elbows. A bar with a wide pad came up in the middle, pressing into it's lower belly, keeping Dog's bottom up in the air. Another bar came up with a steel shackle which was always locked around Dog's neck. The Trainer kept it from wiggling around too much when Owner wanted to give it some special attention.

Dog spent quite a lot of time in The Trainer.

Dog was an "It."

Dog had no assigned gender, even though Dog was anatomically male. Those bits which defined it's gender by societal agreement were always kept locked away in a cramped little steel device held shut with a padlock which caused Dog quite a bit of discomfort when those bits began to swell and try to reassert Dog's discarded masculinity.

On occasion those bits oozed dribbles of Dog's joy on the floor.

For those indiscretions it was always severely punished.

Dog existed only for Owner's pleasure, not it's own.

Dog was in heaven.

Two

Slowly, Joshua Halyard began to write. He'd despaired so many times of finding stories by others which hit that right spot. If there was one part or one certain scene which did make his blood pressure rise, they were almost always accompanied by something which made him recoil and say "Oooohhh... Ick. No." Some additional twist in the author's psyche which absolutely did not make Joshua happy.

So... he began to write his own flavors.

They tended to taste better.

So many places, both to read and to write. He finally settled on one of the more well known sites and began publishing his own short little tales, written in his own style. They were well received and he got compliments, which fed his ego. He ventured this way and that, trying out different things in his writing. Some of those things stirred his libido in ways startling to him.

So he tried more new things and look for more ideas.

Research took up so much of his free time.

Joshua corresponded with Doms, Dommes, Dominants, Dominatrices, Masters, Owners, Sir's and Ma'ams. He wrote to pets, puppies, ponies, kittens, littles, pigs, submissives, slaves and... things. Of all types, stripes, genders, cross, trans, bi, tri, ambi and those who claimed to be nothing at all. All in the pursuit of more fodder for his writing.

To give it more flavor.

The copious notes he kept in both his computer and countless notepads scattered around his apartment, if organized into a coherent system, would have made an impressive compendium of the BDSM community in general.

But then writing reference books wasn't his thing, so it never crossed his mind until much later on in his life.

When he wasn't working, he was working. Joshua wrote and wrote and wrote story after story until he began to achieve a bit of notoriety on the site where he published. Readers began waiting greedily for each new tale, grabbing them up as soon as they were posted and demanding more. They wanted sequels and back stories and more details about this character and that one and more and more and more.

Eventually some of his fans began asking "Who are you? Where do you live? Can I meet you?"

Fortunately he'd been smart enough when he started not to publish under his real name. While nothing he was doing ever smacked of illegal in any sense, it was deemed unsavory by the public in general and if he'd been discovered he would have been looking for another job rather quickly.

In public people tended to be rather stuffy. Even if his employer had been a fan of his writing he never would have admitted it out loud and would have made a show of "letting him go for his own good and for the good of the company's image."

So in his own defense he reinvented himself and an entire biography. He invented the town of Bay City, Oregon and described the sleepy little beachfront community as his base of operations. That kept the curious at bay, though apparently some few had actually gone looking.

Really...

Three

Fame... or even just infamy, depending on how you looked at it, carried a heavy price.

The brownstone in Manhattan was closer to Hell's Kitchen than Murray Hill to be in the "posher" part of the city but nonetheless it was purchased under the name of a dummy corporation and buried under several different accounts to keep his name off of the title and out of the hands of the press. In the years he had lived there, Joshua Halyard had never once entered or exited through the front door. In a reversal of the accepted roles of the rich, only his servants came and went through the front door while Joshua and his "clients" used the rear entrance exclusively. Even then they all tended to use umbrellas of heavy coats or even disguises when ducking in and out to avoid prying eyes.

It was often tiring, but necessary.

Even his name was no longer his own.

Of course he could go into any store or eatery dressed in jeans and a t-shirt as Joshua Halyard and nobody would even look twice. The people who "knew" Joshua Halyard were many years and many many miles in the past.

Though he could do what he wished as himself with impunity, he preferred not to risk it.

If he wanted something, he sent someone for it.

If someone wanted to see him who wasn't on his very exclusive list of clients, he saw them somewhere else.

Those people never wanted to see Joshua Michael Halyard anyway.

They wanted to meet the famous Jax Greyfox, author of the widely acclaimed "Sculpted" series of BDSM novels which had burst onto the literary scene and taken the world by storm.

For his transformation he had invented a persona.

All in black, of course, as was fitting.

A silk suit which was so deeply black it seemed to suck the light from any room. A long ebony walking stick with a silver tip and ravening wolf's head clasped in his hand. Sharply raked black felt fedora and glasses so dark one could never tell where he was looking, even if you dared to peer up into the shadows under the brim of his hat.

Like any celebrity, people wanted to meet him for various reasons.

They wanted to know his life story and learn all the fascinating little tidbits of his character which so engrossed the general public.

For that he gave them bits of his invented biography which he stuck to religiously, even though everybody already knew his home town was a fiction.

They wanted to know where he got his ideas and anecdotes from his experiences in the odd and dark world of BDSM.

In response to which he gave them recollections from his research. Stuff anybody who bothered to look could find for themselves if they weren't lazy.

Some of them...

Some of them wanted a more... personal view of his world.

There was the occasional one who came and knelt at his feet and begged to be His. All ages and all sexes and a few in between and all walks of life. There were those who would not be satisfied with just reading his words. Some experienced in one way or another with the fetish world and few complete beginners.

Those who managed to make it past the maze of private secretaries, assistants, business managers and lawyers always deserved at least a little bit of consideration. Maybe one out of a hundred would be added to his client list. For the others, he always had a list of professionals all over the country and the world who were willing to pick up his slack.

Rarely was anyone left unsatisfied, in one way or another.