The Origin Of Rezso Ch 05

Please Note: Despite being set at a sexy event, this doesn't contain any overt, sexual acts.

True to form, Allison strolled in 45 minutes before we needed to leave, carrying a black garment bag. She startled me when she charged past the office on her to my bedroom. Without waiting for a greeting, she shuffled past the door, and said, "I found the perfect dress for tonight. You're gonna love it."

She didn't wait for my response, either. It didn't matter anyway. She really meant that

she

loved it, and I should keep my opinion to myself.

It's not like I had anything to worry about. I loved the clothes she wore. She liked to show off her body, and I liked having her on my arm. For a while, it was a fantastic combination.

I groaned and stood up from my desk chair. Attempting to shake off the audio's heaviness, I stretched as high as I could and pulled in a deep breath. As I exhaled, my arms flopped to my sides, but the movement did nothing to settle the slow buzz of uncertainty my insanity created.

Who the fuck designs a dream woman? With words?

A first-class ticket to the looney bin, right there.

And yet, something about it felt right.

I knew one thing. For all intents and purposes, Allison and I were done. No matter how much I wanted her—how stunning she looked in her new dress —I wouldn't touch her again.

I rubbed my hands over my forehead and through my hair. I needed a damn haircut. Without proper maintenance, my curly hair became unkempt. And, "whimsical" wasn't the exact image I was trying to project. I grabbed my phone and typed a quick text to Beth.

I need a haircut. Make it happen. Please?

The phone dinged back almost immediately.

Roger that, boss man. Have fun tonight.

😉

I snickered.

I don't even know where we're going.

About 15 seconds later.

It's that...um...event that Vanessa helped arrange. The sexy one.

I let out a big chortle. I could almost see her wincing as she typed the response. In fact, that's probably why she took a full, 15 seconds to respond. I sent Beth a "thumbs up" and headed to my bathroom to get ready.

Allison had already showered and was applying lotion to her naked body when I walked into the room.

"Are you going to be ready in time?"

"I'm more worried about you being read on time. Not that I'd mind being late," I muttered.

Allison grimaced and started to protest, but I ignored her and walked into the bathroom.

A flicker of sadness settled over me. At the beginning of our relationship, I would have taken her right there, her boldness egging me on. Afterward, she'd have been all smiles and giggles as we showered together. Later, our little dalliance would be a little secret between us—paving the way for sexy smirks and thinly-veiled innuendo. All of it recharging us for another round when we got back to my place—or sometimes before.

I couldn't deny that she was beautiful and sexy as fuck, but the thought of touching her...repulsed me.

I hopped in the shower and let the water race over me while I took in the city. When I was looking for apartments, my only request was a shower with a view of the city. She'd done me one better. While the shower was phenomenal, the bathtub was a work of art. Sunken into the floor, it was lined with the most amazing mosaic tile and provided an unobstructed view of the city. Overhead, an enormous showerhead hung, creating a rainforest effect. I didn't use it as much as I would like, but it was one of the things I would certainly miss when I moved out.

After a long, hot shower, I shaved and started to get dressed.

"What's the theme of this thing again?" I shouted from the closet.

"It's a BDSM event. It's kinky. Think kinky."

"So...a suit," I responded, dryly.

"Yes," Vanessa huffed. "A suit will work. Wear the one I like."

I flipped past five or six suits until I came to the one she wanted. She called it my "Daddy Dom" suit, even though I hated it when she called me "Daddy."

All my suits were custom made. Beyond an extravagance, it was a complete necessity. My size makes buying off the rack impossible. At six-foot-four, my arms and the circumference of my chest make everything else look like it came from the kid's section.

That particular suit, I had tailored to highlight my assets. It was just a little snug across the shoulders. The arms were just a little tight. That's why she liked it. I mean, I liked showing her off, so fair was fair.

I finished getting dressed and walked into the kitchen.

When I saw Vanessa, I stopped dead in my tracks. She was stunning. The dress was skin-tight and black. The sides were bare, with bands of slick, black vinyl wrapped around her in three different places: a band across her breasts; one around her waist; and one just above her hips. Her hair was slicked back into a long, straight ponytail. Her lips were painted a deep red—the same color as the velvet heels on her feet.

She raised an eyebrow and smirked, before giving me a demure nod.

"Ready?"

"Let's get going."

The event was held at club specifically designed to cater to New York's kinkiest. I'd been to a handful of times. Most of the time, the shows were raucous and wild, but this event promised to have none of that flair. The way Allison described it—the way Vanessa described it to her—we should expect an evening that blended art, 5-star cuisine, and kink. In deep contrast to over-the-top, sexual exhibitions, tonight was darker and more esoteric—you know, snobbish bullshit dressed up as innovation. I glanced at the invitation and it gave me a little hope for the event's quality when I recognized a few, high-profile artists and chefs.

I knew I was in for something different, the moment we pulled in front of the club. The usually bright and colorful marquee was dim with "Private Event" scrawled in large sloping, cursive across its white surface. Red light, barely visible through dark, sheer curtains radiated from the building like glowing ember writhing under a dark surface.

Allison bit her bottom lip and placed her hand on my knee. Impulse took over, and I almost grabbed her hand but stopped. I wouldn't touch her knowing that she wasn't what I wanted. Any intimacy between us was gone. Even if she looked like the embodiments of sex in that fucking dress. And those heels...

Christ. Knock it off.

I wasn't in love with her. I wasn't about to add insult to injury by using her for sex—even if she wanted it. Even if every fucking cell in my body wanted to. I was done sleeping with someone for the wrong reasons.

As soon as the car came to a stop, I angled my body away from her, using a false sense of readiness to slide from under her palm. The driver opened her door and offered his hand. When I caught him stealing a glance at Allison, his eyes widened and he looked away, a tiny smirk plastered across his face. Once composed, he met my gaze again, repentant. I gave the poor kid a nod. I mean, I wasn't fucking stupid. Allison was hot as sin.

And, if he knew the things she let me do to that body...

For fuck's sake, Andy. Get a grip.

Allison looped her arm into mine but turned her body forward. She wasn't about to miss the opportunity to preen in that dress. You couldn't blame her. Without question, not one pair of eyes was trained on me while she was dressed like that.

When we reached the front door, Allison handed our tickets to a man wearing tails in a shiny, snakeskin fabric, complete with a black tophat. A little flair, but just the right amount.

When we got inside, two near-identical women greeted us. They wore black, sequin bikinis and tall, black high-heels with laces tied past their knees. They escorted us through the dining room. Walking in tandem, their movements were synchronized to the smallest detail. The performance space had been completely transformed, except the stage which stood where it always had. In the seating area, there were no more than 20, large round tables, surrounded by eight chairs.

"Vanessa bought an entire table," Allison whispered.

Of course, she did. Nothing that little bitch liked more than spending my brother's money. Well, aside from blatant promiscuity.

Our table was next to the stage, the perfect vantage point to watch the show. Vanessa and Luke were standing next to the table when we got there, talking to another couple I didn't recognize.

Shit. Just what I needed, an entire night filled with pretentious, small talk. Fortunately, they were saying their goodbyes as we walked up. Vanessa and Luke turned to us, his eyebrows shooting up and a small smirk breaking out across her lips. When we made eye contact, the corners of Vanessa's lips pinched slightly, greeting me as the necessary evil I was. My brother charged forward and attempted to slap a hand on my shoulder, but I dodged him, opting for a firm handshake instead.

"Little brother," I said.

"Big brother," he nodded.

Allison's hand slid up the small of my back as she attempted to guide me to the table.

"We should probably sit down. They're going to serve dinner soon," she smiled, a frosty impatience lingering on every word.

Vanessa jerked her head in agreement and sashayed to the table, waiting for Luke to pull out her chair. By now, I'd pulled Allison's chair out and was scanning the room for familiar faces. While not a veteran on the kink scene, I'd been to my fair share of parties, and it was disheartening that I didn't recognize a soul.

It made sense, though. The vibe was completely different here, not relaxed or open. This was more about being

seen

rather than experiencing something new. Most of my kinky friends—rich and poor—abhorred that type of flashiness.

Our table had three open seats and before I could mention it, Allison asked, "Is someone else coming?"

"Oh, yes," Vanessa giggled. "Oliver's coming tonight."

Luke rolled his eyes as he watched Vanessa and Allison gush over Oliver's impending presence. He caught my eye and shook his head.

Oliver had an unjustified reputation as the scene's resident kinkmaster. Well, this scene, at least. The people I knew would be revolted by his brand of "dominance," which was really cleverly concealed abuse. The boss's son was also a complete dickhead who held a big title at the bank but rarely did any actual work. In fact, when Oliver was involved it usually ended up making more work for me.

Perhaps I was predisposed to dislike him because he was Rebecca's lifelong friend. While at Columbia, they'd had a falling out. No matter how many times I asked her about it, she never told me why. I assumed it had something to do with his legendary debauchery, but she wouldn't even confirm that.

Waspy reticence at its finest.

Vanessa studied our faces, unhappy with the lack of enthusiasm.

"Oliver's great," she whined. "He is. He knows more about the lifestyle than every single one of us combined."

"Why? Because he belonged to a kink club in college?" Luke sneered.

"It wasn't just a kink club, Luke. It was

the

kink club. It's the oldest one in the country and highly respected," Vanessa returned.

"But, didn't he get kicked out?" I threw out, relishing his embarrassment and happy to point out her misplaced veneration. Rebecca shared that tidbit with me, perhaps hoping it would sate my curiosity for a while.

Vanessa straightened her back and narrowed her eyes.

"Yes," she smiled. "He got kicked out on some bullshit technicality."

Everyone's picking on Poor Ollie

, I thought.

I was grateful when the conversation trailed off as friends of Luke and Vanessa stopped by to congratulate her on the event.

Luckily, by the time dinner started, Oliver was nowhere to be found.

The event's official host, a rat-faced guy with a terrible combover, gave a perfunctory opening address that was insufferable at best. He thanked Vanessa for all her hard work. I snickered as a shadow of embarrassment fluttered across her face when he praised her "many assets."

As promised, the meal was a combination of culinary and living art. When Old Ratface finished, the house lights went down. After a brief moment in darkness, three beams of light appeared on stage. A three-piece, string trio stood in the light, stark naked and playing a classical tune.

The first course was soup. Potage à Trois—watercress velouté, beef consommé, and classic vichyssoise. The three different types were presented in long, thin shot glasses. It was served by three, almost-nude women tethered together at the head by a large serving platter. They moved across the room to the tempo of the music.

Though relatively the same height, they were vastly different. One was very thin, while the other was more curvaceous with a round bottom and narrow waist. The third woman was downright Rubenesque. I saw Allison give each of them a haughty once-over. When her gaze reached the plumper woman, she practically sneered. Her face conveying deep dissatisfaction,

How dare she be fat in public?

In perfect harmony, they bent their knees and removed the platter. Two of them held it on either side, while the third, heavier woman spun around to serve each guest.

As if blaming the soup for the woman's "revolting" spectacle, Allison shoved it aside with the back of her hand, giving the woman a tight smile.

The next course was a chilled whole lobster, served with caviar and a small vial of Bloody Mary sauce. For this course, blacklights were turned on and nude servers painted like ocean life tumbled and spun to each table. The body art mesmerized me. The attention to detail was awe-inspiring with octopus tentacles lacing up one performer's leg and intricate coral painted across another's backside. Each performer's body was a work of art in itself.

"Like what you see?" Vanessa teased, her eyes spiteful.

"It's magnificent. Who's the artist?"

"Rodrigo Tondi. He's been doing body art in the city for two decades."

Allison scooted closer to me, and whispered in my ear, "Maybe I could sit for him sometime."

She slipped her hand under the table and started to run it up my thigh, but I grabbed her wrist. We made eye contact and confusion flashed across her face. Before she could say anything, I shook my head and placed her hand back on the table, never breaking eye contact. Allison gulped, and her eyes fill with tears.

Unflinching in my resolve, I returned my attention to the swirling, painted bodies.

I managed to get through the next course—a fig salad served by a Master and slave—without having to speak to anyone at our table.

The main course arrived with the most fanfare. Kinbaku-bound women and men hung from the ceiling and were lowered to just above our table, like chandeliers. Each carried an individual serving tray.

Just as the main course arrived, so did Oliver. Dressed in a black suit and white shirt, he was flanked by two identically dressed women. Both had collars around their necks with chain leashes attached, Oliver's hand griping the leather strap at the end of each leash.

As they approached the table, Allison shrieked, "Oliver!"

She glared at me and leaped to her feet and almost shoved one of his poor dates out of the way to hug him.

He kissed her on each cheek but regarded her coldly.

"Hello, Allison. Hello all."

Oliver removed his jacket and handed it to the girl at his left. She dutifully retrieved it and hung it on the back of his chair.

Oozing theatrics, Oliver shimmied past the girl on his right and sat down.

"Ladies," he commanded. At that, his two escorts hit their knees, situating themselves on either side of his chair.

Oliver gave a glance around the table, making sure his display didn't go unnoticed. My brother's head was bowed into his phone, jaw tight in a way that only I would recognize. Vanessa and Allison's faces glowed with childish reverence.

"How are we this evening?" Oliver said. His over-the-top ostentatiousness grated me. While Allison and Vanessa fell all over themselves filling him in on the details of the evening, I turned my attention to his companions. Eyes lowered, it was impossible to attract their gaze.

Lulled back into the show around me, I dug into dinner and prayed the evening would end soon.

We were waiting for dessert when it happened. Oliver reached out and slid a finger under one of the girls' chins and turned her head toward him.

In a flash, I remembered.

Kylie.

Kylie was Oliver's date for the company's Christmas dinner.

He'd turned her head in the same, stomach-turning way.

My throat almost closed, and I struggled to breathe. I started to cough as I searched for breath. Every head at our table turned to me, a mix of concern and embarrassment at the display.

"You alright there, Garrison?" Oliver needled, his tone peppered with detached arrogance.

I grabbed the table edge, willing myself to stay seated, trying to refrain from ripping his throat out.

But, his goddamned, smug face was too much. I shot out of my seat and barked, "Fuck you, you sick motherfucker!"

Everything went in slow motion, as I shoved my way toward him, nearly knocking over his little pet. Luke caught me before I could make contact.

Years of sibling tussles were on his side, and he used what he knew to his advantage. He grabbed me by the shoulders and jerked me back, whispering in my ear, "Do you really want to do this here, man?"

I turned and met his eyes, trying to convey the disgust I felt for the dickless coward sitting at our table. Luke's eyes were concerned but composed.

"No, you're right. He prefers to fight with women."

The whole table gasped, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of his pets drop her head lower. Rage flooded over me again. I lurched forward, but this time two, waiting security guards jumped in and shuffled me to the exit. A mortified Allison followed behind, her face contorted in a malicious grimace.

If we weren't over before, we were now.

It made no difference that I wanted to end things anymore. This type of public confrontation with someone as moneyed as Oliver was the dealbreaker of the century. For someone wrapped up in appearances, public humiliation was a mortal sin.

I freed myself from the guards and indicated that I was no longer a threat to the fucking pussy sitting at my table—at least for now.

By the time we got to the street, I'd smoothed out my suit and regained my composure. I'd barely turned to address her, when Allison shrieked, "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"The guy's—" I stammered. "He's... a..."

An ambulance whizzed past, siren blaring, and jolted us from the argument.

I spun on my heel and ran my fingers through my hair, taking a few steps away from her. When I turned to face her again, she hadn't moved, her body still and poised for combat.

Resigned to our demise—one she clearly wasn't accepting—I snarled, "Go back in. You don't want to miss the show."

"Is that what you want?" she said, eyes glassy with tears and disappointment.

I squared my shoulders and set my jaw.

"It is."

The words came out, but I felt their impact in my tightening throat. For all her coldness and all my hesitancy, we'd made a lovely couple, and endings are never easy. They push every other ending to the forefront.

She bit her lip and swallowed hard.

"OK," she whispered. The decision made, Allison's usual aplomb returned. She strolled over to me and put her arms around my neck, pulling me close.

She leaned in to whisper in my ear.

"And, don't worry, Andy. Your secret's safe with me."