Chapter Text
“I don’t know what to do, DK.” John was fighting to breathe evenly, trying not to sound the way he felt—completely overwhelmed. He wasn’t even sure where he was exactly. Some side street in Sydney that he’d pulled onto, trying not to vomit, where he’d managed to find a stretch of empty curb to park in. He had no idea if he’d woken his friend up, a world away in Florida, and at the moment he didn’t care.
“You’re going to be ok, John, just take a deep breath and calm down.” Deke’s voice was tinny on speaker, but he didn’t sound mad, just confused. “Tell me what happened. You said you were driving and freaked out? Is this your first time back in a car since the accident?”
The accident. A city street, lit with neon and billboards above and reflections from the rain-slick pavement below. Headlights on the wrong side of the road, coming at him so fast. Or was he on the wrong side? Car horns blaring, all around. The lights blinded him, diving in the same direction as he tried to dodge. The impact was just a shudder, only clipping his fender, but it ripped him around as the other car spun in matched orbit. John saw it skid across the lanes with a clarity that felt like slow motion, only broken when it hit a streetlight at far too many miles an hour, peeling open and flinging its driver through the shattered windshield.
“John?" his friend asked nervously. "John?”
John closed his eyes, but it didn’t help, so he opened them again. It wasn’t raining. There were no flashing police lights or blaring sirens. No one screaming. There was nothing wrong. “Yes, DK. My first time, as the driver at least. Just picked up my rental back from the repair shop a couple hours ago. I was supposed to meet Gill near downtown.” No one at IASA was supposed to know about Gillian, but he hadn’t been able to keep her a secret from his best friend. “I was doing fine, nervous, I guess, but it was doable. Until the car in front of me got cut off, and laid on their horn. I just completely lost it. Hands started shaking, I hit the brakes so hard the guy behind me almost rear ended me, and then he started honking too. I totally froze up.” It had been worse than that. He’d thought for a moment he was going to gray out, his vision blurring like it did in heavy Gs. DK didn’t need to know that.
“But you’re safe now?”
The worry in DK’s voice actually made John feel calmer. “Yeah, yeah, I’m good. Pulled over and parked, and then I called you.” It sounded simple, but he had barely managed it. It had taken him a few minutes just to calm down enough to dial the phone. But why? After he was hit head-on when he was nineteen, getting back behind the wheel hadn’t been hard at all. A little more wary on blind curves for a while, but that was it. And that time his car had been totalled, and he’d almost died! John didn’t know why this accident was affecting him so much more. Well, other than that the other man had died this time.
“How can I help, John?” his friend asked. “What do you need?”
John’s hands hurt. He was gripping the steering wheel too hard. Finger by finger he made himself relax. It hadn’t been his fault. He wasn’t in trouble. He was just jumpy around cars. It happened to people all the time. A touch of PTSD. “I think I need to see someone. A therapist. Maybe get some actual chill pills.” He tried to laugh, but it came out more like a cough. His chest hurt too.
“You can’t do that man, you’ll get scrubbed!”
John wished he could believe the panic in DK’s voice was only concern for him. But if John was replaced as the pilot and commander, there was a chance it could lead to a cancellation or delay of the Farscape project altogether. And his friend was only a contractor, not yet permanent IASA staff. Scrubbing the mission could end both their careers.
John tried to sound soothing, but he was talking too fast. “I was just joking about the pills, Deke. And so what if I’m a little shaky driving right now? There’s nothing for me to hit in the upper ionosphere. I’m not going to be piloting a car up there. I just need to talk it out with someone, get some CBT. Breathing exercises or something, so I don’t freeze up when I hear horns.”
“You can’t go to IASA doctors about this, John. And if Canaveral finds out you’ve gone to someone else because you’re jittery when you drive, that’s going to be even worse.”
“I’m not... I mean... of course I’m having a little trouble, DK. A guy died in front of me! But that’s why IASA has therapists on staff.” Now that his heart rate was starting to slow down, John could see how bad it had been. He needed to deal with this. “Mission command doesn't have to know the details, just that I talked to someone after the accident to process my feelings.” He tried to smile as he used the cliche, but he didn’t know if it came across over the phone. “Since this is completely unrelated to being a pilot, it shouldn’t matter to the project at all.”
“Shouldn’t, but you know it will, John. You know it will. There’s no such thing as doctor-client privilege when the mission commander is the one getting head shrunk.” John heard his friend sigh. “I hate to say it, buddy, but you gotta get this under control on your own. If anyone— anyone— hears that you almost crashed your car because someone honked at you—”
“Fine,” John cut him off. It was painful, but DK was just being honest. Sure, IASA made everyone do therapy, but almost no one took it seriously. Aeronautics was still too macho for that. From the first moment he’d conceived of the Farscape, as an undergrad, it had been a Hail Mary to actually be allowed to fly the mission himself. But John had thrown himself into his career, had convinced the scientists and engineers to build his design, had proven himself as an astronaut and pilot. John had earned the right to fly the Farscape. He couldn't let them ground him now. “You’re right. It’s stupid to risk it.”
“I'm sorry man, it's not fair.” Deke said, voice low with sympathy. “But you know how jumpy the execs can be.”
John realized he was hunching over the wheel still, and made himself sit back, pulling the keys out of the ignition. “I’ll figure this out, DK. It’s just going to take some time. I’ll stay out of traffic for a while. Try not to drive at night. I’m sure it will get better, it hasn't even been a month.”
“I know you will, John. It’s just nerves. You just need to take it slow. Do you want me to come down?” There was a hesitation in his friend’s tone. Getting to Australia would be expensive, especially short notice, if DK could even leave the lab right now. And it would be almost impossible to get IASA to sign off on a trip without a justification they would have to lie about.
John did his best to play the big brother role he always used to calm Deke down, even though his friend was the older of the two of them by a year and a half. “No. No man, I’m good. Thank you, but no. You have too much to do there. Don’t worry about it. I’ll get over this.” He closed his eyes and focused on sounding like mission commander, not a fucking crybaby. “Now since I have you on the phone anyway, tell me what the materials guys are saying about the heat shielding…”
The long, brisk walk downtown from where he left his car had given John enough time to stop thinking about the accident, but a little too much time to wonder about why Gillian had told him to meet her here. He recognized the area as soon as he turned onto Liverpool, and the dread that had barely started to ebb returned as he consulted his pocket street map and realized the address was on the other side of The Leviathan. Sure enough, he soon found himself in a tiny parking lot at the back of the same building, looking around for Gillian’s car.
On a different day, the thought that his girlfriend apparently wanted to go to a sex shop with him might have been titillating. But John really wasn’t in the mood to shop for vibrators or banana hammocks, or whatever Gillian had in mind for him, especially after she honked her horn at him to catch his attention, before stepping out of her sporty car. He hoped she hadn’t seen him jump. “You finally made it!”
“Hey baby, what are we doing here?” John leaned down to peck her on the cheek as she hugged him in greeting, praying she couldn’t feel his heart racing. He took a deep breath before letting her go.
Gillian looked and smelled fantastic. She’d taken time to shower and style her hair after work, put on makeup and perfume, and she was dressed in a stretchy black satin dress that clung to every curve. It was almost enough to make him not care what she had in mind. Which was good, because she didn’t answer him, looking around puzzled instead. “Where’s your car?”
“I…” John thought fast, “I thought parking would be hard down here, so I left it a few blocks over.”
“Oh, you didn’t have to worry about it. But you’re here now, and we’re late. Let’s go in.” She looped her arm in his and started lightly dragging John toward an entrance beside a stairway attached to the back of the old building.
“Late for what, and go in where, exactly?” John decided playing dumb was the best tactic.
“We have an appointment.” They entered into a hallway only dimly lit, with worn terrazzo floors, and a coat of soft green paint that hadn’t aged well. The walls were pierced by only a couple doors, displaying suite numbers but no business names. Then they passed by a small elevator and emerged to the side of the staircase, in the same eucalyptus-dominated atrium John was expecting.
He pretended not to know where they were, carefully not looking at the far side where The Leviathan’s doors were thrown wide again, invitingly bright across the interior court. At this hour, only the cell phone repair shop was also open. “An appointment? With who?”
“You can’t guess?” Gill stopped him as they passed the stairs, going up a step. She pulled him close, demanding a slow, very warming kiss. When she let John go, Gillian tugged at his shirt and jacket. He was still dressed for the office, but apparently his appearance needed tidying. “An expert. A teacher.”
“What am I supposed to be learning?” John should have been getting more nervous, not less, but that kiss had him thinking about something other than car crashes and sirens for the first time in an hour. He tried to pull her back into him, enjoying the novelty of not having to bend down to find her lips, but Gillian wouldn’t let him tempt her.
“We’re late,” she reminded him, hopping down from the step again, and dragged him reluctantly toward the open door. “And it’s not for you, it’s for me. Well, it’s kind of for you. For both of us.” The nonsensical rattle meant she was nervous. Gillian didn’t usually have difficulty speaking her mind, at least in private.
“Gill, this is starting to sound serious.” What could they be learning at the sex shop? John was hardly inexperienced, and Gillian hadn’t been a virgin either. And he hadn’t thought either of them had any complaints, other than exhaustion-fueled lack of creativity.
“Oh no, it’s not!” She stopped moving briefly, and John followed her gaze to the display window with the masturbating mermaid mannequin. “Wow. That’s… something.” From her expression, it was her first time seeing it, which meant she hadn’t been to The Leviathan in person before. “This is going to be fun.” She said that a little too firmly, another sign of nerves.
“How did you even know about this place?” John asked, pulling her close in again, wondering if he could convince her to ditch whatever these mysterious plans were. Though he wasn’t sure he was up to getting in the car to head back to her place, even with the promise of really great sex on the other side of the drive.
She just smiled at him. “Come on, we’re so late, and I bet she won’t like that.” Gillian pushed him ahead of her, until they were both inside. She paused for only a moment to look around, tugging John with her as soon as she spotted the big central counter.
The tall, older woman with a shaved head, whose name he didn’t recall, was standing there, dressed in a different blue wrap dress. She was talking softly with the large quiet man who had given him the business card. The card he thought had been thrown away the week before. John suddenly had a strong suspicion why they were here.
“Hey, space man. Is this the girlfriend?” Chelsea poked her head out from where she’d been rearranging something on the shelves. The way Chi said it was overly familiar, as was the evaluating look the girl gave Gillian, who reacted by scooting closer and wrapping her arm around John’s waist.
Chelsea was wearing clubwear again, her walky-talky clipped to a black sports bra in a print that looked like alchemical sigils, sliced down the front, with a black fishnet insert that barely hid her minimal cleavage. What she lacked in chest size the girl more than made up for in bare skin. A stretchy mini-skirt in the same print clung to her lower hips, emphasizing how skinny—and fit—she was. John was glad Gillian couldn’t see him staring, because it took him a second to get his eyes where they belonged, looking into Chi’s dark, mocking gaze. “Yeah, she is. Thanks for your help the other day. We’re here for an appointment though...” John nudged Gillian back into motion.
The girl checked the cheap digital watch she had around one wrist. “You’re the eight o’clock? You better get up there, you’re late!” Chelsea pointed at the counter.
“That’s what I told him,“ Gillian said, dragging John with her as she approached the woman in blue. “We’re here for the couple’s session. With Officer Soon. Sorry, we’re a little behind. Traffic.” Gillian lied smoothly.
It was one of the things John had realized about her last year. For all that she acted sweet and innocent, with a shy demeanor and a round face that looked younger than her years, Gill was effortlessly devious. He was the one who had trouble keeping his hands off her at work, or coming up with innocuous excuses to steal a little time together. Gillian would ignore him all day, then manufacture a systems malfunction that she could offer to stay behind to work on. He’d wondered more than once where she’d learned her poker face. They didn’t talk about their personal lives much, but John had gotten the impression that she wasn’t close to her family, and had enlisted right out of high school to get away from them.
“Oh, of course, not a problem. Welcome to The Leviathan. I’m Jan, the manager. Just a moment.” The woman’s serene expression and gracious greeting seemed more appropriate to a fancy hotel than a sex shop. She stepped back to open a door behind the counter, calling in “Susie? Susie, Aaron’s clients are here.” When she didn’t get an immediate response, Jan frowned. “She must still be setting up. I’ll go get her.” The manager bustled through the door, closing it behind her.
The man at the counter, Peter, gave John a slight nod, then retreated behind his large monitor, controlling a mouse with his left hand while the right tapped on the keyboard furiously. John had no idea what the man could be doing. He didn’t know why a sex shop would need a full time tech guy. Maybe he was the one who controlled the lights, and watched the cameras. John was craning his head around, looking for more camera mounts, when what Gillian had said, rather than how she said it, finally sunk in, along with Aaron’s drag name. “Wait, we’re what?” John spun on her. “What are you getting me into?”
Gill flinched at the sudden movement and started quickly explaining. “I bought us a couple’s package with that woman whose card you had. She’s going to show me—us— um, how to do kinky stuff. Different toys, using them safely, ways to tie me up, that sort of thing. I’ve never done anything like that.. and I wanted to do it right for you...”
Gillian’s faltering smile died at whatever expression was on his face. “Oh god, this was a bad idea. You hate it.” She bit her lip, her arms wrapping around herself. “Fuck. I’m so embarrassed. I thought—”
John reached out to hold her shoulders, squeezing gently. “No, don’t be. It’s not that, I’m just— it wasn’t what I was expecting.” He realized he was biting his lip too and consciously made himself relax, pulling her arms free and wrapping them around him instead. “You know she’s a dominatrix?”
“Well duh. That’s the point.” Gil looked close to tears, still not meeting his eyes. “I thought you were, you know, into that. And I don’t know what I’m doing, but last week, with the handcuffs, that was fun. And I thought, why not learn more? I don’t want you to get bored with me. So I bought us a class. I’m sorry, I should have asked you first, not surprised you.”
She should have, but John couldn’t snap at her when she was already upset. And she’d been trying to please him. What had he done that made her think he was bored? Truthfully, he wasn’t going to be in Australia long enough to get tired of her, but that was not something to remind her about right now. “You could never bore me, silly,” he said instead. “The cuffs weren’t even my idea, just an impulse purchase.” He would never have guessed his awkward fumblings had made enough of an impression for her to sign them up for classes.
“Interesting impulse,” she laughed at him, still looking like she expected a scolding.
“Well, I didn’t want you getting bored with me.” John thought he heard a mock gagging sound from nearby and forced himself to ignore it.” The way Gill was looking up at him with those big brown eyes made John want to kiss the nervousness out of her, and get the giggly confident girl back. But he was uncomfortably aware of Peter just a few feet away, and Chi obviously somewhere close too, so he settled for leaning in to whisper in her ear. “So how long is this going to take, because I’d like to show you just how interesting you are to me?”
“Ninety minutes, and I have training in the morning, so you’ll have to wait for that.” She fiddled with his shirt collar again, a smug little smile starting to creep back into place.
John had to admire Gill planning her cockteasing in advance. “An hour and a half of kink stuff, and then I still have to go home alone?” he complained even though it would actually solve several problems.
Gillian took him too seriously though, biting her lip again. “We can cancel. It’s my fault— I mean you had her card… I thought you wanted… that you’d like this…”
“I like you.” John pulled her back from starting to look for Jan. “But hey, we’re here. I’m curious. If you’re up for it… why not?” He knew he was in the wrong headspace for whatever this was going to be. But canceling wouldn’t just waste her money and hurt Gill’s feelings. She would expect to go back to his place, and that would mean getting in a car, which would force him to tell her about his trouble with driving. Just thinking about having that conversation made his chest feel tight. Dealing with the dominatrix again actually sounded less like torture.
Right then a girl John recognized, the smaller of the red-heads from Cobb's bucks party, poked her head out, then came out and around to their side of the counter. Jan stepped through the door and up to the counter as well. “Susie will be assisting Officer Soon today. She’ll take you back.” She motioned with a ring-bedecked hand at the curtained corridor to the right John had been down before.
Susie gave them a rather intimidating smile—John hadn't noticed before that she had very prominent canines, which gave her a feral look. She was dressed much more simply than her stripper costume. A head-to-foot rust-colored Lycra bodysuit, with a vaguely middle eastern crop top tied over it, and a matching red scarf tied into a skirt at her hips. Her red hair was pulled up into a series of little twisted buns, quirky, but out of the way. Around her neck were several wraps of black ball chain, with whatever was hung on it tucked into her cleavage. “Follow me.”
Heaving a silent sigh for whatever he was about to do or get done to him, John wrapped an arm around Gill’s shoulders and headed for the archway.
Susie held the curtain aside for them, then walked quickly ahead of them to open their session room. It was a different space than the bucks party had been in, but almost as large.
Around the room a variety of apparatuses were set up: something that looked like medieval stocks, benches like you’d find at the gym, a medical chair, the throne that Cobb had been given, and more. Everything had extra rings, or too many straps. The stands he had seen at the performance were there too, holding a large selection of whips and floggers. Additional equipment had been set up on a couple of tables, things like feather dusters, scarves, dildos, handcuffs, and vibrators with intimidating shapes and sizes. There were also a few racks of what seemed to be costumes. In the center of the room was another table, with two lines of tape sectioning it into thirds, and behind it an empty rolling wardrobe rack.
A throbbing club mix, nothing John recognized, played just loud enough to help fill the space. Susie waited for them both to enter, then closed the door behind them with a solid, ominous click. “Welcome, Gillian and…”
”John,” he said before the woman could say more. He wasn’t certain Susie had recognized him, but her eyes had narrowed as if she was either trying to place him, or deciding whether to name him. John would prefer not to explain to Gill how every woman in the store knew who he was. He doubted she’d appreciate being shown kinky things by a woman whose bare snatch he’d recently seen.
“Gillian and John,” Susie nodded, those tilted eyes crinkling in an even wider, toothier smile. “Welcome to your kink exploration session. Officer Soon will be with us shortly, but for the first few minutes I will be your guide.” There was something slightly stilted about her speech that made it seem rehearsed, as did the exaggerated way she waved her arm to introduce the chamber and its contents.
“Around the room you will see various toys and equipment that you might be interested in exploring. Everything is either new, or has been cleaned and sanitized, so feel free to touch or pick them up, but do not use any of these items on yourself or each other.”
John looked down at Gill to find her looking wide-eyed and giggly again. At least she was back to having fun. He was feeling a little overwhelmed himself.
Susie walked past them to the table and rack at the center of the room, and gave another rehearsed bit of instruction. “Anything that you are curious about, bring to this table.” She plucked up something from one of two small piles of fabric, white and red, which proved to be a strip of fabric. “For larger items or things you are interested in, but uncertain about carrying, take one of these pieces of fabric, and tie or drape it on your object of interest.”
She gestured at the empty bar behind her and then pointed at the racks of clothes. “You’ll also see a selection of costumes and outfits. They are meant to represent various roleplays and kink activities. Though if you find a particular item extremely appealing, we have many of these in stock or can special order it in your size.” The sales pitch was accompanied by another fanged leer.
“Put anything you are drawn to on your end of the clothes rack or table.” She touched the center of the rail, and then the center of the table, between the two taped lines. “If you see something on your partner’s side that you are also interested in, move it to the center. Once you have made your selections, the Officer will help you talk about what you find in common and what you might want to explore together. Then she will use me to demonstrate how to safely play with some of your selections. For certain interests, The Leviathan holds specific regular classes that might be more suitable.”
She scooped up the two piles of fabric, leaving one strip on each end of the table to mark it and coming over to Gill and John with the rest. “I’ll be here to answer any questions. Go explore!” At her shooing gesture, the music cranked slightly louder. John couldn’t help glancing up to spot the dome of a shielded camera.
Gillian stared around for a few seconds, her lower lip between her teeth, before squeezing John’s hand tightly and heading toward the rack of paddles and other hitting implements.
“What have I got myself into?” John asked himself too quietly for their ‘guide’ to hear. The occasional threesome fantasy aside, other than some brief flings with some more alternative or experimental girlfriends, John really didn’t have much experience or interest in kink. Honestly, he didn’t know what a lot of of the stuff in the room even was. At least the closest table to him had some things he’d tried before; flavored ‘warming’ oils, knobby ended massage tools, even an edible body paint, though a different brand than the one Gill had bought them.
But the sheer variety of potions and products was confusing. Other than not mixing oil-based lube with condoms, he had no idea what the difference could be between all these water and silicone options, though he gathered from the packaging that the silicone ones lasted longer. And he didn’t know why the daddy-longlegs-like head scratcher straight out of Spencer’s or those cheesy Chinese finger trap tubes were sitting here next to a massage gun with too many attachments that looked expensive, not just intimidating. “I’m here to try new things,” he reminded himself.
After a couple minutes of sorting through the collection, a few of the things he remembered liking were the first items he brought to his end of the “to try” table, along with an intriguing tin of honey powder that was apparently applied with a feather duster. No idea what it was used for, but John had always had a sweet tooth. He had been tempted by the massage gun, but it had seemed too aggressive for Gillian. She was still over on the whips and dildos side of the room, so he moved over to the costume racks, but he couldn’t help glancing over to see her picking up each of the many vibrators on display.
“Are we supposed to choose things we want used on us, or on each other?” Gillian asked.
“Either,” Susie responded smoothly, like it was a common question. “Don’t limit yourself. You might even find that you change your mind about which side of the toy you want to be on.”
Considering where his girlfriend was standing, John started getting a little nervous. It had been fun to play around with tying her up and fucking her. He wasn’t sure how he felt about Gill taking a turn. He craned his head to see what she was considering.
“Try not to watch each other,” Susie immediately warned. “Let it be a surprise.”
“Sorry,” John apologized at the scolding, and turned his back to start sorting through the outfits. A few of them had come up when Chelsea had been helping him shop for lingerie, but it was different thinking about them as symbols rather than costumes. Sexy maid still felt trashy. The fluffy skirts that resembled petticoats for a doll or a little girl had no draw either. He also quickly skipped past the sexy nurse scrubs and doctor coats. There was nothing appealing about medical procedures. But he paused when he got to leather straps, slave chains, and corsets.
Did he want his cute tomboy bound up in black leather and metal studs? He’d found the dancers at the S&M show more appealing than he’d thought he would, but it still seemed a little much. After a moment John moved one of the simpler fetish outfits to the rack, and balanced it with a colorful belly dancer’s getup that together with Gill’s blonde hair, reminded him of I Dream of Jeannie. He wouldn’t mind his wishes being her command for a night.
There were men’s clothes too, sexy firefighter with assless chaps, vinyl bodysuits that looked like a sweat factory. Nothing that he wouldn’t feel ridiculous in until John found a chainmail shirt, surprisingly heavy and solid, like something from a Hollywood costume shop. He had brief thoughts of a ‘heroic knight rescuing the princess’ scenario, but he put it back as way too childish.
“Don’t be shy.” Susie coaxed. “You can put something on the table just because you’re curious, even if you don’t want to use it, or have it used on you. There are no judgments or expectations here.” Her saying that instantly made John feel self-conscious and judged for his more adolescent fantasies. So when Gill came to join him at the costumes, he immediately switched places to explore the more hardcore toys.
The rack of paddles and crops was puzzling. He’d only had a glimpse of it at the bachelor’s party but it didn’t make more sense with more time to look at it. Why were there so many kinds? Could someone really distinguish between being hit with a piece of leather five inches by ten versus four inches by twelve? The different classes of ‘whips’ were a little more understandable. Being hit by a crop probably hurt worse? differently? than the floggers with all the long strands. He found a small one with very soft suede ‘lashes’, that he thought might even feel nice, and plucked that up. In the spirit of experimentation he tied one of his red ribbons around a very large flogger, too big to fit on the table, that made a heavy, satisfying swoosh when he waggled.
After that he moved on to a bondage setup. He hadn’t forgotten how interesting, even beautiful, he’d found the ropework that the Officer had done on Jewel. Rather than a ceiling suspension, this room had a four-legged apparatus set up, cross-braced, and when he tested it, very stable, with hooks and ropes hanging down. Feeling a little awkward, he tied a red strip around one leg, and picked up a coil of smooth rope from the nearby table. He added to his collecion a longer version of the cuffs he already owned, more like bracers, that he thought were probably meant to more tightly restrict movement. There were a couple variations of poles with eye bolts or cuffs on them that John eventually figured out were meant for holding legs apart. It was embarrassing how quickly his mind jumped to what he could do with Gill trapped in those. But was it too much? He looked around, spotting Gillian still looking at the clothes.
“Focus more on your own desires than what you think your partner would be willing to do,” Susie called. She must have been watching him again. “There will be time to talk about both of your choices, and make up your mind about what to experiment with.”
John tied a ribbon on one of the spreaders and quickly went to the next table.
This one, where he’d seen Gillian lingering earlier, was filled with—to him—more lurid items. Some of these he’d actually seen before. Caroline had a smaller version of that Hitachi and taught him how to use it on her, to rather explosive effect. And while it wasn't really what he was into, he’d had other girlfriends who’d got off on him shoving something bigger in their snatch than his fingers when he was eating them out. But he’d never gone shopping for this sort of stuff himself and had never realized how completely irrelevant his dick could be. He wasn’t by any means small, but the size and detail of some of these dildos could give a less secure guy a complex. The anatomically correct, but ludicrously large, double-ended one looked more like something from a horror movie than a sex toy.
But if he didn’t think about it too hard, looking at all the equipment was interesting in an X-rated Rorschach test kinda way. He couldn’t always say why some things just looked interesting, and others didn’t. You’d think an engineer would being into the more complicated widgets with extra gears and lots of batteries required. But it was usually the simpler, softer, more abstract tools that he was tempted by. Maybe he was more insecure in his masculinity than he thought. But after a few minutes and one electric shock from a gadget he hadn’t realized was that easy to turn on, he found himself with a small armful of sex toys, and headed for the table to drop them off, feeling self-conscious again.
At least Gill was off looking at the suspension stand he’d tied his ribbon to. She had apparently chosen what looked like a Catholic school girl outfit from the costume racks, and one of the fluffier doll-like dresses. That made John a little uncomfortable. Was that actually what she was into? Or did she think that younger girls was what he wanted, or why he was with her?
While he was laying his finds on the table, he looked over to see a familiar paddle, with red hearts along the back, resting on Gill’s side. He hadn’t enjoyed his encounter with it, but would it be different if his girlfriend was wielding it? Or if he was using it on her instead? He slid it into the center of the table, along with the feathers and silk scarves Gill had chosen. Other of her items he left where they were, not sure how he felt about the pink vibrator with a complicated set of protrusions, or the thing that looked like a stubby unicorn horn, that he thought was meant to be a butt plug.
Suddenly John wondered if things like dildos and vibrators were included in what the Officer and her assistant were going to demonstrate for their education. He assumed Gill had more of an idea than he did what this ‘exploration’ was supposed to involve. A week ago, John would have said Gill would freak about watching people use sex toys on each other in front of them, but maybe he had no idea what his meek-acting girlfriend was actually into.
Other than the bondage stuff, John hadn’t looked at the furniture yet. It all seemed a bit weird and complicated to him, more like porn props than something people used in real life. He noticed that a bridge-like padded bench, that might have been used for sit-ups if not for the restraint hooks at each panel, had a white ribbon tied to it. So did the thing that looked like a gymnastics pommel horse, with some extra, lewdly useful knee supports. John had either accidentally created a monster, or he had no idea how much the girl-next door looks of his girlfriend were an illusion.
John stopped his circuit of the room in front of something he felt like he’d seen somewhere before. It was taller than him, and shaped like an elongated X, lightly padded in black vinyl, with periodic holes in the arms. It was resting on a sturdy looking stand at a backwards angle. There were two foot rests fastened into holes at the bottom, and of course there were other straps threaded through rings in other places.
Arms snaked around his waist from behind, startling John out of his examination. A quick glance at the room revealed that Susie had slipped out and they were momentarily alone. “Hey baby, having fun?” he asked, sliding his hands into Gill’s.
“Uh huh. Wild stuff though.” She tucked into his side, looking at the cross-thing with him. “That’s like something out of a torture chamber.”
He gave her a little squeeze, then asked a joking version of a very real question that had been nagging at him for the last few minutes. “So, do you want to be the torturer, or the tortured?”
She laughed at him, pulling away and then pushing him toward the cross. “Is that your way of telling me you’d rather be the one tied up?”
“No!” he protested, laughing too, to hide his discomfort. John let her move him into place, and stepped obligingly up onto the supports. “But you know fair’s fair. If that’s something you want…” A fluttery feeling erupted in his stomach when she pushed him back against the padding and stepped between his legs close enough that he couldn’t get up again without shoving her out of the way. He didn’t know if he felt hot or trapped.
Gillian's expression was hard to read, she just looked focused, the way she did when she was tracing a bad circuit or figuring out the best way to take a component apart. “I want what you want, John.” She settled against his upper body, legs pressing into his crotch, the angle of the cross making it easier for her to reach his lips for a tentative kiss. “Is this what you want?”
He didn’t have to answer because she was already kissing him again. His eyes closed as everything went soft and hard, overpowered by the smell of vinyl and leather, sharp disinfectant and her floral perfume. As his body reacted, John’s mind was half occupied in the feel of Gillian draped against him, the eager thrust of her tongue in his mouth. The rest was spinning along various possibilities. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be bound up and helpless. But there was something about just giving in to whatever she did. He had noticed straps of leather fastened to the cross pieces, just above where his knees were resting now. They were probably meant as restraints to keep his thighs in place, but to John they had looked like stirrups, positioned very conveniently for someone sitting astride him…
“Sorry for interrupting,” barked a familiar contralto, with pointed sarcasm. “But I must insist that you don’t use the furniture until you have received both my permission and instruction.”
John’s eyes flew open, clutching at Gill as they both automatically scrambled to get untangled.
Aaron’s look was slightly toned down from the bachelor’s party. Her hair—this persona was definitely still intended to be feminine though it didn’t quite work—was twisted up into a slicked back updo, showcasing almost gaunt cheekbones. Long false lashes, enhanced by dark eyeliner, made her gray eyes seem a little lighter in contrast. Rather than an elaborate military jacket, she was in a high-necked (of course) sleeveless bodysuit, glossy stretch vinyl that disappeared into black leather cargo pants with an unnecessary number of pockets and metal rings. The curve of breasts under “her” top didn’t match the muscled shoulders and aggressively toned arms.
John’s first weird reaction was to feel shamed about how many days at the gym he’d missed since he got to Australia. Or maybe it was just a guilty echo from feeling distinctly like he’d been caught necking under the bleachers by his least favorite teacher. “Sorry uh… ma’am,” he stammered awkwardly, helping Gillian to step over the footing of the cross, and hopping down himself.
From the cold narrowed eyes, John knew the dominatrix had recognized him, but he wasn’t sure why the Officer was that pissed off over their touching the furniture prematurely. Maybe it was part of the whole schtick, but he sure hoped he wasn’t about to get spanked again.
Then he felt his girlfriend stiffen and almost trip as she looked up at their instructor too. “Flight Officer… Sun?” Gillian asked, her voice rising with confusion.
John noticed the shock in his girlfriend’s voice before he registered the mispronunciation of the dominatrix’s name. He glanced over at the domme, but she– he– had gone very still, heavy brows drawing together.
“I am Officer Soon,” the domme emphasized, “You are Gillian Ryan and..”
“Her partner John!” Susie prompted, helpfully. The smaller woman was hovering behind the Officer’s shoulder, her fretful energy making it clear that she knew something had gone wrong.
The hand he was still holding was gripping his fiercely. Gill staring at the dominatrix. His girlfriend wasn’t just embarrassed that the instructor and Susie saw them French kissing. Gillian was shaking with tension.
“Baby, what’s going on?” he asked softly, trying to pull her closer, but she seemed frozen in place.
Gillian finally took a shaky breath and unstuck enough to stare wildly back and forth between John and the dominatrix, clearly upset. “I’m sorry. This was a mistake.” She yanked at John’s hand. “We have to go. I can’t do this. I’m sorry.”
Officer Soon took a couple steps toward them. She stopped though, when Gill flinched, pulling harder to get John moving toward the far door.
“I’m sorry!” John said too, to Susie who was standing with her mouth open, flummoxed, and to the Officer, draw up and rigid. His last impression, as Gillian dragged him out, was of huge gray eyes wide with shock.
When they exited the back hall, only Peter was at the counter. The lumbering man lifted enough out of his chair to watch them over the top of his monitor as Gillian almost ran out of the sex shop, held back by John who sped up, but was trying to hold on to some dignity. Jan came out of the back room, asking “Is something the matter?” but John only had time to call another apology before he was pulled out the door.
Gillian slowed down as soon as they were out, but his normally chatty companion was completely silent as they quick-walked through the atrium and through the back hall to the parking lot. John let her be until they reached her car then he pinned her gently against the door. “Gill, baby, can you tell me what just happened back there?” He stroked a wispy lock of hair that had escaped her clip back behind her ear, fingers lingering on her cheek. “I would understand if it was nerves, but it didn't feel like that at all. You knew Officer Soon. Were you just… embarrassed?" he asked, trying to get her to meet his eyes.
“Not embarrassed, no.” Her throat bobbed in a little swallow. “Flight Officer Sun… Aaron Sun,” –Gill used the same, Chinese-sounding last name, though nothing about the dominatrix seemed Asian– “was a pilot at my last base. Trying to qualify for…” she hesitated, “for a special training program.”
Something secret, John assumed. Gillian hadn't talked a lot about her previous postings, but she was too good to just be doing basic maintenance at a typical airbase.
“Did you two have a problem?” he asked gently. As she calmed down he thought Gillian seemed more angry than afraid.
“I don't think Sun even knew who I was. But a man I looked up to… they were involved.”
John read between the lines. Australia had a more progressive take on gay people in the military than the U.S. They’d been allowed to openly serve since 1992. But homosexuality had been fully decriminalized in that country less than five years ago, and he knew from crude workplace banter that gay men were still seen as suspicious, or the butt of jokes. John assumed most career men still kept it on the downlow.
“Did something happen?” he prompted her, when Gillian trailed off.
She nodded. “Word got out. Tim– my friend was punished, worse than if it were just normal, you know, fraternization.” Her brows drew together, scowling at the memory. “Because of… the program… it was hushed up. But he was reassigned to Butterworth.”
Butterworth was in Malaysia, and important only because of being the only permanent base outside of Australia. To go from a secret project to BFE… Gillian meant her friend’s career was over. “I’m sorry,” John said softly, still trying to piece things together. Gill was upset, but if Aaron had been a Flight Officer, that meant he’d still been in training. Most full pilots in Australia started as lieutenants. Her friend should have known better than to get involved with essentially a cadet. Especially with the extra scrutiny for gay airmen. Not that he would say that. “What happened to Aaron?”
“Aaron was given a slot in… the program.”
That didn’t make sense, but John didn’t want to interrupt and ask questions, so he just nodded and squeezed her arm gently.
Gill took a breath and went on. “Sun scrubbed out a few months later and left the RAAF.” That last part she said with bitter satisfaction. “This isn’t what I would have pictured Aaron doing next,” Gillian laughed without humor, her face settling into an ugly sneer. “Maybe I should have. I’ll have to call Tim.”
Her anger was unsettling. Obviously, he was missing a lot of the story, because it wasn’t like Gill. It wasn’t really his business, though, and it sounded like she couldn’t say more anyway. “I don’t think S and M sex instruction is a typical career path for anyone,” he agreed. “I can see why you wouldn’t be comfortable with the situation, though. I’m sorry, it must bring up some bad memories.”
“Yeah,” she sighs. “Not someone I would trust with my boyfriend, or even my sex fantasies, to say the least.”
“I already told you that Officer Soon– Sun– whatever, is not my type, at all.” John said forcefully. “I guess you’re just going to have to share those fantasies with me instead,” he tipped her chin up so she could see his smirk. Though to be honest, he wasn’t feeling up to much of anything at the moment. Between the trouble with driving earlier and the whiplash from this ‘couple’s exploration’ session, John’s libido was taking a break.
“Okay,” she tried to smile back, but her eyes suddenly started to well up. “But would you hate me if I said not tonight? I just…” Tears spilled over, and she sniffed hard, rubbing at her eyes too late and leaving a smear of mascara and eyeliner.
“Gill, baby, no! Of course that all can wait.” He felt guilty for the wash of relief, and pulled her in close for a hug. “I just meant… we don’t need someone else to help. We can just have fun and figure it out together. But later, okay? This weekend we’ll run away to the beach or something,” he offered, though it was going to be a bitch to get out of all the meetings IASA liked to schedule on his supposed free time. John used his thumb to brush away her tears and wipe clean the dark smudges of makeup, plastering on his most encouraging smile.
“Thank you.” She reached up and John let her pull him down into a kiss that was a little damp and desperate. “I'm so sorry about this. Let me give you a ride to your car, at least.”
“You have nothing to be sorry about,” he reminded her, pinning her against the car with his body so he could lean in for another peck. “Just a wild coincidence. We're going to laugh about this later.” She looked like she wanted to argue with him, so he kissed Gillian again to keep her quiet. “A little walk will clear my head, though,” he said when they came up for air. “So just head home, okay? And call my cell phone when you get there?” He couldn't let her drop him off. She'd see that he'd lied about parking a couple blocks away.
“Fine. But if you keep up with this ‘ring me when you get home’ crap, I'm going to start calling you ‘daddy,’” she teased, pushing at John until he let her up so she could unlock the car door.
“God no, please. That is one kink I definitely do not have,” John groaned. He really didn't need any more reminders that he was almost a decade older than Gillian. He hadn’t been trying to be paternal. But since the accident, it helped him sleep to know she’d made it home safe. Time to get ahold of himself. “Don’t worry about it. I'll see you tomorrow, anyway, b— Gill.” He caught himself just in time, and made a mental note to also remove ‘baby’ from his list of endearments. “I’m coming over to the lab to do another test of those heat sensors.”
“That sounds like a line,” she teased.
“Maybe it will be. Hope it works.” He stole one more kiss before she got inside, then carefully closed the door for her. Gillian gave him a little wave before pulling out of the parking lot with enough acceleration to make her tires squeal and John sigh.
It was going to be another long walk back to his car. Consulting his pocket map, John thought he’d save a couple minutes cutting through the building, so he went back inside. The mobile repair shop was closed now, so only The Leviathan’s doors were open. He toyed with the idea of going in, to apologize, explain, say something to Aaron, or at least to Jan, about the abruptly canceled appointment. But he couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t make the situation worse. “Sorry, my girlfriend doesn’t want the gay guy that ruined her mentor’s career to show us how to use a flogger,” wasn’t exactly subtle. Keeping her fee was going to have to be apology enough. John should make that up to Gill. He knew the dominatrix hadn’t been cheap, especially not on a corporal’s salary.
John continued on, down the short hall leading out to Crown. The street was busy for the hour, popular with people avoiding the nearby toll road, and a lot of businesses in this stretch of road were still open. After one more quick look at the map, John started to head down the sidewalk. A car that had been parked at the curb pulled out into traffic right as a delivery truck–going far too fast for a downtown street–blazed past. The delivery driver tried to avoid the car, but still smashed into the driver’s side before veering into the other lane, barely missing clipping an oncoming car and hitting another one parked on the other side. The crash of metal and blaring horns hit John like a stick to the head, painful and all-encompassing.
“John?” a voice came from nearby, almost angry, barely audible over the rush of blood in his ears. “Crichton, get out of the street!” Was he in the street?
Hands grabbed the back of his coat and pulled. John thought he should struggle, or at least protest, but he was too busy fighting the surge of nausea. The grip dragged him until his shoe hit the curb. He would have fallen, but the hands wouldn’t let him, yanking up on his coat until he managed to gather his feet under him and step up onto the sidewalk.
“Chelsea, ring triple-oh,” the same angry voice snapped, as John was abruptly released.
“Is everyone all right? What’s the matter with him?” A higher pitched voice, more broadly Australian, familiar and coming closer, startled John into awareness with the same question. It was happening again. At least he wasn’t in a car, because the gray fog had returned to the edge of his vision, and the concrete under his feet seemed to be tipping, slipping—
“Nothing,” answered the stern, lower pitched voice, almost a growl. The hands came back, well, one hand, gripping his upper arm so tightly that even through his coat it hurt. But now he couldn’t fall, it wouldn’t allow that. The pain was rhythmic, squeezing, fingers poking deep, then easing. Slower, far slower than his heart or his breathing. “Jan is checking over the woman in the car that got hit. She got the worst of it. The truck was like a tank, the car just bounced off.” The person talking, the owner of the hand holding him, pulled him a couple steps farther from the curb.
“But he doesn't—”
“I saw blood, Chi. Go back inside and ring triple-zero!”
John flinched at the crack of their raised voices, almost in his ear. There was the impression of movement, the sound of feet running. He wanted to move, but the hand didn’t allow it. He should be doing something. He had first aid training, he should be helping. But all he could do was stand there, listening to the repeated honking of offended car alarms, the prickle of pain coming and going in the same rhythm. John was aware of a growing crowd on the sidewalk with them, and across the street, clustering around the truck. He could hear the frightened cries of someone nearby, in pain, but he couldn’t make himself look. There was another voice woven in, softer, soothing, reassuring the injured girl. John tried to listen to it, but it was drowned out by the blaring horns and sirens, first distant, then coming closer. The grip on his arm eased and released just as the police cars and ambulances turned onto their street.
Sirens, oscillating too quickly, wrong, different from the screaming wail of police back home. The buzz of Australian ambulances like angry cartoon hornets, louder and louder until it was all he could hear. Rain coming down, but he couldn’t feel it hit his skin, just the wet, the cold, the light refracting in the blinding headlights until everything was rainbows and screaming. That was from a woman, with the bad luck to be passing by. Another victim, staring and crying and clutching her head at the blood, dark pools on the sidewalk and twitching limbs, and John could only stand and stare.
Hands again, in the small of his back now, unrelenting, pushing him toward the shadow of the building. Forcing him into collision with the people standing about, hovering, chattering. Then they gave way and there was a break before the doorway swallowed him up, still being shoved onward, down the hallway and into the atrium. Here the sounds of the sirens rattled around the open space, in competition with the music from The Leviathan’s open doors, but winning.
The Officer, it was her hands and her angry voice pressing him, did not relent. With no regard for his stumbling, John was prodded toward the stairway, not the shop where he had left her just a few minutes before. He didn’t know why she was angry with him, whether it was because of Gillian or some other reason. But he couldn’t seem to talk or even think, with the blaring from outside still echoing all around him.
She took her hands off him only when his feet hit the first step. “Crichton, go up the stairs,” she ordered, snapping a series of instructions out, each one crisp, harsh, and cold. “Do not stop or turn around until you reach the first floor landing. Count each step out loud. Say nothing else. Use the handrail. Touch nothing else.”
John was too disoriented to do anything but obey. The metal railing was cold but solid, and he needed it at first. He had gone a few steps before the voice lashed from just behind him. “Count! You’re on four.”
“Five,” he said to keep her from shouting again. “Six, seven, eight.” It should have been the easiest thing in the world, but he was most of the way up the first flight before John didn’t have to think what the next number would be, or keep a death grip on the railing to stop himself from falling. Every part of him felt shaky, and his stomach churned with nausea. “Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one.” He had reached the top and not knowing what else to do, just halted there. To the left, the staircase seemed to continue around a wall to the next floor. But Officer Soon moved past him, shoulder colliding to jostle him, and started down the hallway instead.
“Follow me. Call your steps, left-right-left-right.” Her voice was still sharp, but less angry. She walked away with every expectation of John following, and not knowing what else to do, he did.
“Left, right, left, right,” he said quietly, starting to feel silly, but not wanting to provoke the dominatrix into a confrontation of some kind. Luckily they only went thirty feet down to a door with a suite number and a sign stating only “Training Facility”.
Officer Soon unlocked the door, and reached around to turn on the lights. “Inside,” she ordered, waiting for him to go ahead of her before closing and locking the door behind them.
Later, thinking through the confusing encounter, John would recall that the windowless room was bisected by a row of towering, black, freestanding wardobes—from IKEA, or some similar Australian store. Together they formed a long interior wall, though it didn’t quite meet the ceiling, running to the left down the length of the studio to a closed door. He would remember tall curtains, also black, hung on wires, sectioning the entry from the rest of the front chamber, with a second curtain hiding whatever was in the room beyond.
Some of the wardrobes were turned to the inside, offering cubbies and hooks that together with long cushioned red pleather benches made it feel like a small locker room. Even the floor was covered in a gray, rubberized surface, like a weight gym floor, that gave slightly beneath his feet. The ceiling and all the walls he could see were covered in sound absorbing foam paneling. Incandescent bulbs hung down from above, with black shades that forced the brightness into a row of spotlights and shadows. The only decoration was directly opposite the door, a poster-sized copy of the photo from the Officer’s business cards, set above a small console table with a tray.
But at this moment, all John noticed was that the sound of police sirens was silenced by the closing door, and then the Officer took a fistful of his coat again, and dragged him down the length of the room, past the first curtain, to stop under one of the bright, dangling, incandescent bulbs. She stared closely up at his face, until John started to feel self-conscious.
Everything seemed too much all at once. Too bright, dark, loud, quiet. His whole body was vibrating and the gray fog felt like it was hovering at the edges of his vision, tightening his focus to just the face of the person in front of him. At this distance, John could see that the Officer was wearing harsh makeup that only enhanced the angularity of her features, making her brows seem heavier, and her eyes darker and narrower. The false lashes looked ridiculous too, exaggerated and distracting. “What’s going on?” he finally asked. “Why did you bring me here?”
Those gray, cold eyes narrowed further. “You needed out of there.” She took a half-step back. “Give me your coat, then sit down, you’re about to drop.”
John didn’t want to do either of those things, but when she yanked on one lapel he pulled first one arm free, then the other, and let the Officer take it. She waited until he sat down on the red bench before turning her back to hang his coat on a hook, and then her own on another. “Good.” She turned back. “Hold both hands up and touch each finger to your thumbs, like this.” She demonstrated, tapping her fingers forward and back. “One, two, three, four. Four, three, two, one.”
John copied her, still feeling foolish, but unable to protest while she was looking at him and he was feeling so weird. He didn’t count out loud, and she didn’t make him, but the numbers rattled around his head anyway.
After a few repetitions, she nodded. “Good, keep doing that, but more slowly. Breathe in for a four count, then out for a four count. I’ll be right back.” The woman walked away, heading for the door at the end of the room without bothering to confirm he would obey. It was a bathroom, judging by the brief sound of running water. She slipped through another curtain beside it, but returned before John had finished three sets of the breathing exercise she’d given him.
“I think I’m okay—” he said, putting his hands down.
“I didn’t say you could stop,” the Officer said sharply. “One more time.” She watched him go through the exercise, then nodded. “Here, wipe your face off,” she said, handing him a wet black washcloth.
John did what she asked, only then realizing that his face was already damp, tears or sweat, or both. The cold felt good, but as he cleaned up, he felt a wash of shame. He’d totally lost it, again, a complete mess, and who knew how many other people had seen it, in addition to this cold, hard-faced woman. Man, actually, John remembered with a start. “Is everything you own black, Aaron?” he asked, trying for a playful tone as he set the black rag to one side.
The dominatrix set a can of coke down next to him on the bench, then dropped down into a comfortable crouch in front of him, elbows resting on knees. He was balanced effortlessly despite the high heeled boots. “It doesn’t show blood, or other body fluids, John. And I don’t like the smell of bleach, the other option.”
It was the most normal sentence John had gotten from the dominatrix yet, and that plus the use of his given name startled him enough that he just stared for a moment.
Aaron didn’t seem to notice. “Drink. Sugar in the system will help.”
“Uh, thanks. I don’t… don’t know what happened back there, but thanks.” John fumbled with the can, popping it open and taking a quick sip. The bubbles burned the back of his throat. He wasn’t much of a soda person usually, but it tasted surprisingly good.
“You were having a panic attack,” Aaron said with a bluntness that was like a slap to the face.
John wanted to protest, but it seemed pointless. And there was no judgment in the stern face; there was barely even interest. “I guess I was,” he finally admitted. “Thanks for getting me out of there, especially after… earlier.”
Aaron just watched him, until John took another drink from the can just to make the silence less awkward. The hand holding the can was still shaking. He tried to hide it by setting the can back down, but the dom snapped, “Keep drinking.”
When John finished another sip, Aaron rose from the crouch to sit next to him on the bench, and without preamble pulled John's hand to lay on that black leather-clad thigh. Before John could ask, cool fingers were pressing firmly over his pulse. Like the rest of the man, Aaron’s hands were a confusing mix of masculine and feminine. Long fingers with slightly pointed nails, painted red this time, with no rings or other jewelry. But he took time from a wide aviators watch that looked both too large and somehow perfectly suited to that slim, sinewy wrist. It was already after nine PM, which didn’t seem possible but aviator timepieces were notably accurate.
John was about to comment on it—it was a really nice watch—when he realized it probably wasn't a fashion choice, but a remnant from the man's former life as an RAAF pilot. Instead he asked, “I guess this has happened to you? You seem to know exactly what to do.”
Aaron snorted derisively, standing up again, and taking the washcloth with him. “It's part of the job.” he said, raising his voice as he walked back to the bathroom. “People don't always realize they even have triggers until we run across them during a session. Kink and trauma aren't always related, but it's a cliche for a reason.” The water ran for a bit, then the man came back, handing John a washcloth that was now steaming hot. “Rub that on your wrists and neck,” he said, the crisp dominatrix tone returning to his voice. “Pay attention to how it feels on your skin.”
It hurt, was how it felt, burning his fingers. They had good water heaters in this building. But John unbuttoned his sleeves so he didn’t get them wet, and tentatively scrubbed at one exposed wrist. The rough cloth reminded him suddenly of a cat they’d had, Mr. Jingles, who was usually a bit standoffish, unless, in the way cats had, he sensed the depths of teenage woe. John had been nudged out of a self-pitying funk more than once by a wet, warm, sandpaper tongue, grooming his arm hairs into place.
“Give me that,” Aaron said impatiently, pulling the washcloth away before John could offer it. The other man stepped in closer, one hand undoing a couple more buttons on his dress shirt, before applying the warm towel to the front of his neck.
It seemed pointless to fight, so John let him tilt his chin up and rub along the sides of his neck, and under, cooling now, so it wasn’t quite painful. The fabric caught on his stubble–John hadn’t shaved since the morning–adding to that cat’s tongue sensation. Fingers pressed into the hollow of his throat, taking his pulse again, even while the cloth continued to rub up and down the column of his neck, warming him. John hadn’t realized he was cold, but he had to stop himself from trying to hold the washcloth to his skin when after a minute Aaron stepped away with it still in his hand.
“Getting better, but you should finish that soda.” The dom turned his back on John, pulling a drawer out and dropping the damp cloth into the hamper hidden inside.
John knew he must be recovering because he couldn’t help staring at the man’s butt. In his defense, it was just as good as he remembered from the party. Not overly round, but tight and muscled. Between the heels and the leather it was really selling the hot domme illusion. He took a big drink of soda. He needed to finish this can and get out of here. “Thanks again,” John said to fill the silence.
“Was that your first?” The dom turned around to lean against the cabinets, arms folding, and back to giving John that cool, speculative look.
“Not exactly.” He didn’t really want to go into it, but felt like he owed this person at least a little honesty. “I would appreciate you not mentioning that to anyone, though.” He wasn’t really worried about word getting back to IASA from the employee of a Sydney sex shop, even one that used to be military, but he should still try to do damage control. His head was throbbing, and he rubbed at it with his free hand. Just the thought of IASA and he could feel his heart starting to race again.
“Why would I ever mention it?” Aaron looked momentarily bemused. “It's not my business. But I hope you’re seeing someone about it. You were strongly disassociating.” The man’s stare suddenly intensified. “Finish that soda. Chug it.”
John didn’t want to, but Aaron’s voice had resumed its angry snap. He found himself lifting the can to his lips and drinking the rest of the Coke down in three gulps. The fizzy beverage burned down the back of his throat.
“Good. Is it cold? Do you feel it going down? Bubbles in your nose? Don’t answer me, just pay attention.” He came off the wall to loom over John again, barking instructions in rhythmic succession. “Crush the can in your hand, slowly. Listen to the sound. Breathe in for a count of six, hold it, then breathe out for four. And repeat.”
The orders were banal, but John tried to obey. He was starting to see there was a meaning to it, Aaron wasn’t just practicing some weird kink thing on him. He focused on the tickling in his throat, the crinkles of aluminum, the constriction as he inhaled past the tightness of his chest, and then the pain as sharp edges of crumpled can bit into his palm. By the time he had finished the two demanded breaths, he felt calmer again. The can was thoroughly flattened, and he offered the scrap of metal up to Aaron like a present. “You’re good at this.”
“Yes, I am.” Aaron dropped the trash into another drawer. “Give me your wrist,” he demanded, a little irritably, and started to take John’s pulse again.
The other man’s fingers were still warm from the hot washcloth. John was too conscious of them, of the soft stroke as Aaron’s other hand went to the back of his neck, squeezing lightly, rhythmically, until his muscles started to soften and the tightness in his chest to ease. “I’m sorry,” he said, feeling embarrassed, but not wanting to move away from a touch that was strangely comforting despite, or maybe because it also felt so impersonal. “For being such a pain in the ass.”
“That’s actually not a problem for me,” Aaron said, close enough that the dom’s breath brushed at his ear. Was that a joke or a weird come on?
John wanted to look at the other man, to see if he was imagining the flirting, but the grip at his nape wouldn’t let him turn his head.
“When was the accident?” the dom asked.
John’s preoccupation shattered. “How—” but the cause of his panic attack was obvious, wasn’t it. “A few weeks,” he admitted. It felt longer, like it was a weight he’d been carrying for years.
“Here in Australia, then?”
“Yeah. Can— can we not talk about it?” John could feel his heart start to quicken again, and coughed, trying to clear a sudden knot in his throat. The fingers pressed to his pulse disappeared, and the hand at his nape stopped squeezing.
Aaron started snapping orders again. “Crichton, tell me how many lights are in this room. Start from the left and count until you reach the door, and describe them.” When John didn’t answer immediately, sharp nails clawed across his open left palm. “Don’t ignore me, Crichton.”
The not-quite-pain—actually it almost tickled in a way that traveled up his arm to his spine—forcing open eyes he hadn't realized he'd closed. “One, two, three…” Nails pricked again, more lightly, at the skin of his neck, preventing him from moving his whole head to follow the line of the lights to the end of the room, where the last one was suspended just over the entry. “Four. Four lights. With metal shades and bare bulbs.” John was glad to have something to look at rather than Aaron’s face. The complete inability to hold his shit together for five minutes was embarrassing enough without watching the man’s expression for pity or disgust. “Very cop-movie interrogation room, or Cardassian torture chamber.”
“What?” The hand left his neck, but Aaron’s fingers pressed down over John’s wrist for the third time.
“There. Are. Four. Lights?” Clearly the dom wasn’t a Trekkie. “Never mind. I swear, though, you're doing like.. hypnosis or something.” John took a deep breath, realizing he could again. “Huh. Senses, patterns and numbers, breathing exercises… It's not that different from regular therapy.” He made himself face Aaron, who would have made an unlikely psychologist even if he weren’t dressed like a sexy storm trooper. “Have you had training? You must have.” A wild thought came to him, and John spoke without thinking. “Can you teach me?”
He’d said something wrong. Aaron stiffened, straightened, let go of John’s wrist and stood up, moving back across the passage. When the other man turned to face John, he was inhabiting his Officer Soon persona more fully. “I’m not a therapist, Crichton.” Some trick of posture and attitude made her abruptly colder, more predatory, and provocatively, disturbingly sexy. “I offer very different services. If you want instruction in those, be very specific about what you are asking for.”
John didn’t know how to respond. He barely knew what people did with dominatrixes, and clearly treating anxiety was not usually on the menu. But he was desperate enough to try anything. If he lost control of himself because someone at work asked him about the accident, or over a fender bender in the facility parking lot, or when some asshole honked a horn while he was in a car full of IASA officials, his career could be over.
He felt his way through it. “When I come across… triggers,” he used Aaron’s word, “I want to know what you’re doing that calms me down again so quickly. Or ideally, learn not to panic in the first place. Can you teach me that?”
Heavy brows came together, an expression in between skepticism and concern. “Possibly. Conditioning is part of many sub training scenes. But if you’re already being treated, it could be counter-productive.”
“I’m not! And I’d rather work with you.” It sounded crazy, even to John, but it also might be his best chance at getting help that he really needed.
It was several long seconds before the Officer spoke again. “Is there a reason you want to do trauma therapy with a domme and not a psychologist?”
Put like that, it sounded ridiculous. “You seem like you’d be more fun?” He tried for a winsome smile, even though Officer Soon had until now acted completely immune to John’s normally robust charisma.
As expected, this only made the domme press burgundy tinted lips into a thin, wide, line. “The dominant-submissive relationship is based on trust. I don’t have the patience to play guessing games and we wouldn’t be able to safely explore without honesty anyway.” She turned to the wardrobe where John’s coat was hanging and plucked it up.
The truth made him a blackmail risk. As former military, the Officer would immediately know it. But John didn’t feel like he had a choice. “I could lose my job if they find out I’m having panic attacks. And they will if I go to a regular therapist.” he said to the domme’s back. “I don’t care about the kink stuff, I just need something that works, and works fast. You snap me out of it so easily. It’s like mind control.” Maybe that wasn't the most flattering description. ”I think you can help me get a handle on this, and it seems stupid not to at least try. Even if it’s not your usual… service, ” he winced at the awkward phrasing.
Officer Soon turned to look at him, coat in her hands, and held him with her cold gray gaze for long enough that he felt his heart start to speed up again. “You wouldn’t be my first client seeking help with a psychological issue. But it would be kink stuff. That's what I do.” John winced at the sarcasm in her voice. “My list is closed to new clients right now anyway.” The coat was thrust into his hands.
John could feel his career slipping away. “I’m willing to pay whatever you ask,” he blurted, “...if you could make some time?”
He couldn’t tell if the dominatrix was tempted, or just surprised by his idiocy, but she didn’t respond for several seconds again. Then with a shake of her head, the dominatrix finally dismissed him. “You're not fit to make any decisions in your state of mind. You shouldn’t even drive, let alone sign a contract.”
John put the word contract aside to worry about later and latched onto the opening she’d left. “That wasn’t a no.”
The dommes eyes ran up and down John, clearly making some sort of judgment. “Well, there is something about you that I find… interesting.”
She probably only meant his American pocketbook, but the evaluation in that gaze sent a shiver (excitement, dread, shame, pride, a confused mixture of all of those?) down his spine anyway. “Interesting?” He tried to look casual as he shrugged the coat on, wondering if it would help or hurt his case if the domme found John physically attractive.
“Only a little.” Officer Soon abruptly reached for his shirt collar, ignoring John’s instinctive flinch. All that happened was red lacquered nails refastening the buttons she’d— he’d released earlier. “I will ring a cab to take you home. Take some time to think. If you still want this in three days, you may call me to schedule an interview.”
“Three days?” He couldn’t wait that long. What if he had another attack? But he wasn’t sure being pushy would help his case. “Can’t I just… sleep on it?” he asked, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice.
Aaron coolly appraised him. “Say please, Crichton.”
There was a right answer to the question he was silently being asked. It had been a long, difficult, terrifying, confusing day, but John had always been an excellent test taker. Like a knight before his liege, John took a knee, staring up into those fierce scornful gray eyes that just might possess the key to his future. “Please, Officer Soon, may I call you tomorrow?” He shouldn’t have spoken with that much yearning, or waited with so much anticipation for the nod that finally came. But it worked.
“Yes.”
It wasn’t until he was laying in a dark bedroom, playing and replaying the night, while his heart thudded unevenly, that it occurred to John to wonder how Aaron had known his last name.