Chapter Text
Work the next day passed in something of a blur. John had slept hard, once he’d managed to fall asleep. Ten hours, waking too late to retrieve his car before morning meetings. So he’d spent a long lunch making his way downtown and then carefully, slowly, driving back to his apartment through the quietest streets he could find. He only barely made it back to the lab in time to oversee the heat sensor test.
It was stressful to watch a shell of the Farscape module, fitted with the current round of shielding and a dozen additional test sensors, be subjected to re-entry level blasts of flame. Worse, the sensors appeared to function perfectly, but the numbers themselves weren't great. The Farscape was designed to be reusable, limiting the available vehicle profiles. But if his experiment succeeded, John would be re-entering atmosphere faster than any previously manned aircraft. At those speeds, radiative heat flux would also rapidly (in a way he was still struggling to model) superheat the module as atoms were created and destroyed by friction.
He could survive perhaps as much as 150 degree interior temperatures for the approximately thirty minutes re-entry would take. But only with a cooling suit that would be bulky to wear and could potentially trap him—with deadly consequences if he missed his landing zone or had to ditch over water. So IASA was insisting on a maximum of 120 degrees sustained cabin temperature before they would approve the launch. Today's readings had hovered around 135. And actual re-entry would be worse, since they weren’t creating fusion on an open lab floor.
“Good work everyone,” he called with forced cheerfulness. “Sensors worked perfectly. Let’s wrap it up and head home.” The crew started packing away tools, and powering down computers. They were subdued enough that it was clear they all knew the results were going to mean starting over with the shielding. It wasn’t entirely unexpected, John had been hounding the insulation and shielding vendors since the module failed the heat test the first week he was back in Australia. They’d hoped it was just faulty sensors, but the possibility that they would need to redo the heat dispersal package was always there.
“Ryan, can you pull the anterior tiling on the nose before you go? I want to get that sent over to the materials guys for analysis,” he said over his shoulder as he headed out of the combustion lab.
He heard a faint, slightly resentful “Yes, sir,” as he left. Anyone could have done it, the whole nose cone was going to have to be deconstructed and rebuilt, so it didn’t need their best tech to do the demolition, but it was a convenient excuse for her to stay late, and he really needed something to go right today. The bad attitude was just Gillian giving them cover. He hoped.
Gill kept the act up two hours later, when she banged his office door open, clumsily carrying in the cardboard box of tiles, and slammed the door closed again, even though there was hardly anyone left on the floor to witness the little fit of pique. She made up for it by immediately tossing the box down and making a beeline to his desk. She plopped onto his lap, smelling of carbon and rocket fuel and demanded a kiss he was more than willing to provide. Apparently she hadn’t minded him giving her extra work, but now she deserved a reward.
John had carefully arranged the whiteboards cluttering his small office to block any view in through the windows. So he didn’t hesitate to unzip her jumpsuit with one hand, while the other gripped the back of her neck, holding her in place as he kissed her thoroughly. She looked and smelled like a grease monkey, but her mouth was minty, and just as eager as he could have wanted.
Gillian tried to squirm her hand into his pants, but he let go of her head and pulled her arm behind her back instead. He was just a little rough. He hadn’t meant to be, but everything felt urgent and too much at the same time, and he just wanted her to let him explore, without needing to react himself.
The undershirt she was wearing was drenched with sweat. Gill had been on the facility floor, closer to the blasts than John. He didn't mind it; he liked that the scent of her had overwhelmed the baby powder deodorant she usually wore. He liked what he found under the tank too. Mesh and damp velvet rather than skin met his finger tips as he yanked her shirt up.
“Oh god, Gill, you wore these today?” Running his hand around to her back, he felt bare ass and the strap of the thong diving into the loose BDUs she wore under her overalls.
“Yeah, didn’t think that one through,” she laughed, giving up on trying to get free, and relaxing against his shoulder. Her free arm came up to pull his head down into another kiss, and she set her teeth lightly in his lip for just a moment. The slight flash of pain was enough to send a shock down to his balls. “Are you sure you want to do this here? I could meet you back at home, take a shower…”
John was tempted. It had been a crap day, on top of a crap week. His eyes felt sandy and he hadn’t eaten since a stale bagel at 2. Slowly peeling sweaty velvet off Gill’s body sounded better than a quick fuck on the hard desk, followed by reams of paperwork. But right next to the waiting stack of blank forms and his laptop was his office phone and that reminded him of something else he had to do. If he was really going to try to get help from Aaron, he had to call tonight, and he couldn't do it in front of Gillian.
But John didn’t want to turn her away either. “I can’t wait that long, Gill,” he said into her ear, giving the lobe a little retaliatory nip. He let go of her arm, so he could pull her fully back against him, then nudged her thighs apart with his knees, giving his hands room to roam up, down, and under her layers of clothing. Shoving her jumpsuit down her shoulders bound her arms, but made it easier to squeeze her breasts, warm, damp, and perfectly framed by the low embroidered neckline of her lingerie. At least until he scooped them free, cupping their slight weight in his palms. “God, these are perfect,” he whispered, toying with her nipples until they started to swell and harden.
He knew it bothered Gill that she wasn’t a natural athlete. Short, and a little on the soft side, she had to work to stay compliant with service fitness requirements. But John had been with a lot of Type-A women who obsessed over every pound or trace of cellulite, worked out like it was a second job, and ate like monks. It was fun to look at, but he had to live like that before missions himself, and it was exhausting. He preferred being with someone a lot lower maintenance. Gill had a womanly squish to her and she loved pizza and beer, and she was happy to skip some workouts for the bedroom. Or the office chair. He shifted his thighs, raising her up just enough to arrange himself so she wasn’t pinching his burgeoning erection, then settled her back into place and pulled the zipper of her suit all the way down.
“Don’t you want me to get this off—” she tried to sit up again, but John yanked her back by the convenient handle of her tits.
“Leave it,” he growled against her ear, making sure to trap swollen tips between his fingers, rolling her nipples until she couldn’t help sighing back against him, and letting him have full reign. His left hand helped his right worm its way down, leaving her breasts exposed as he pushed aside the jumpsuit, ripped open the waistband of her pants, found the seam between top and underwear and invaded. Her short-trimmed hairs were curled with sweat, making it easier to navigate to her damp opening. John slid two fingers down her slit and plunged inside, too agitated to wait.
Gillian wasn't expecting it, it might even have hurt a little, from the small grunt she made, the little squirm away that John didn't allow. Her cunt wasn’t fully wet. He could feel the friction as he pumped his fingers in her, but he didn’t relent. The shuddering of her chest, the way her nipples were now rock hard and goose-pimpled—despite his rough treatment—was too intoxicating. He twisted his fingers back and forth inside her, sweeping his thumb all around her inner lips, seeking the still shy button, then coaxing it by feel out of hiding. She jumped like he’d shocked her when he flicked the tip with his thumb.
“Oh fuck. Stop, John, stop!” she was trying to pull the top of her jumpsuit down, to free herself. “Let me—”
“No,” he ordered, shoving his fingers deeper to keep her in place. What he was doing to her was more interesting than whatever she could offer him. Gillian was always so quick to get him out of his pants. He was really enjoying keeping hers on. It felt dirtier, hotter, to be playing with her, making her wet, under the layers of already damp cloth, working only by touch and by her reactions. It wasn’t unfamiliar territory, but like the night of their “monthaversay” he was enjoying the chance to explore her depths without the usual rush to sex they seemed to fall into.
What he was doing with his hand, corkscrewing deeper, then pulling out as far as her clothes would allow, only to plunge back in again, was clearly effective. Her little pants and jerks after just a couple minutes drove her ass into his crotch in ways that were making him momentarily reconsider this slower pace, but he could tell she was close. Slipping his fingers all the way free, to her immediate protests, he found her clit instead, rubbing her juices in until she was making almost adorable little pleas for more.
A quick, sharp pinch to the sensitive bud was enough to give her a first small release, John capturing her cry with his mouth in case any stragglers remained in the office to hear. The spurt of wetness painted the knuckles he ran up and down her hot center. Pressing them against her opening, he ground her nub lightly into her pubic bone, the intensity making her groan, and writhe, and hit a second, larger peak. She clawed at his neck, desperate to spend her moans against his eager thrusting tongue.
Gilina wasn’t a big girl, and John was usually careful, even with foreplay, not to push too hard, too deep, to always hold just a little back. He threw all restraint away this time, shoving his fingers back into her until he couldn’t go farther. She was slick enough now to slip a third finger in, the walls of her passage tight and rippling. He spread wide, stretching her, enjoying her moans, salted with a high-pitched edge of nervousness as he worked her harder and faster until his palm was slapping into her soft mound with meaty weight, sending shocking vibrations to her center that he could feel in his own groin.
Of all things, it was his cellphone that kept John from losing the last of his self-control and taking her right then and there. He was anything but uninterested. The desperate grunts and profanity Gillian was letting out while he finger fucked her were more than enough to have him ready to go all on their own. As good as sex could be, nothing was better than knowing his girl was getting off, and Gill was definitely getting there again, splayed helpless across his lap, thighs thrown open, hips twitching up to meet his thrusting digits. He was about to pull them out and find some way to get himself in her, when her flailing foot connected with his mobile, sending it across the desk to knock over his pen cup, the contents spilling over the edge to the floor.
“Shit,” she moaned, starting by instinct to squirm up to fix things.
But John yanked her back against him, taking possession of one breast, squeezing and pinching. “Where do you think you’re going?” His other hand curled and plucked inside her seeking the sensitive stretch of wall, feeling her clench around him as he pressed into it, his thumb swirling her clit relentlessly, driving her to orgasm from the other side too. She forgot about the pens, her gasps turning to whines, shrill and pleading, as the sensations trembled on the edge of too much and not enough, pain and release. When John finally pushed her over, left hand clamped over her mouth so she didn’t have to stifle her shriek, the rush made him light-headed. The feel of her shuddering around his fingers, the sudden slipperiness and the smell of female musk, her ass writhing against his crotch was almost enough on its own to make him cream his shorts.
The desk hadn’t sounded appealing ten minutes ago, but now he badly wanted to rip her out of that jumpsuit, bend her over, and finish himself in her, right on top of his over-stuffed appointment calendar. Yet even as Gillian squirmed free of his fingers with a groan, twisting about in an awkward tangle of legs and chair arms, what caught John's eyes was his mobile, now resting on the edge of his desk, near the bulky gray office phone. The fresh reminder of his waiting call sent his stomach into a guilty lurch that competed with the desire to help Gill get turned around.
She finally managed to straddle him without his help. “My turn,” she gasped, pulling at his shirt. Gillian was alternating between trying to get room to undo his fly and running her hands over his chest like she could feel his thumping heart. Between her careless urgency, and his raging hard on, Gill was struggling with the buttons. It hurt just enough to bring his attention to solving the awkward Tetris of getting them both out of enough clothes, and probably the chair, to actually fuck.
There were too many layers in the way, regardless of whether she wanted to ride him or let him take over. John had to get her out the jumpsuit and pants first, one way or another. He lifted her by brute force out of his lap and onto the tabletop instead, setting her down with a thump that accidentally knocked that blasted cell phone to the ground.
Leaning down to pick it up, John had another one of those flashes of lucidity, like he was outside himself, watching with a judging eye as he got it on in the workplace with a subordinate, easily influenced colleague. Hell, it was a sexual harassment charge waiting for happen. The cold metal and plastic in his hand was a reminder that he wasn't just being selfish with Gill's body. He was doing it here in his office because he'd begged Aaron to take his call—a person Gill had an understandable hatred of—and didn't want to tell her about it.
Just thinking about the Officer's probable sneer if she could see him now was enough to take the edge off his lust. He was willing to go behind Gillian's back to save his career, but here he was risking hers , just to relieve a little tension. He was older, he was supposed to be smarter, more in control. Probably no one had heard them, but the longer they stayed there, messing around, the more likely another late working scientist would stop by. And he couldn't take this fuck session to one of their homes, or even go seek out a more private location on campus. Pissing off the dom by calling too late was a real risk. The dominatrix was hardly the patient type, and imagining being scolded by Aaron's snide faux contralto was doing nothing for John's erection either.
Standing up, he caught at her hands, pulling Gill close enough to reach her mouth, still red from his grip. “You… are… delicious…” John said between kisses, descending from lips, to throat, to one swollen nipple that he had to suckle again until she twitched, still oversensitive from her last orgasm. He let go of her and gently tucked her firm, flushed breasts back into the top of her lingerie. “But I have to finish this paperwork tonight.” It was true, but dishonest too.
Her mouth fell open, "Are you having me on? You can't be serious! You want to stop now?"
She was sweating and tousled and completely fuckable, and John didn't want to do any of what he was about to start with Aaron. He wanted to go back to her place and play with all the new things he was learning about how to make her come. But the way his chest tightened just thinking about getting in the car with her made that impossible. And he couldn't tell her why. There wasn’t any good way to justify hiring Officer Soon. Even if Gillian knew how badly the accident had affected him, the decision to see a pro-domme about it, especially someone she hated, would have been a lot to ask her to understand. Visiting a dominatrix would have been considered cheating in most of his previous relationships. If it had been someone else, maybe John could find a way to explain it that didn't sound prurient. But even without any sexual component, seeing Aaron was a betrayal of Gillian.
"Duty calls." He tugged her shirt down, tweaking her velvet covered nipples along the way, trying to make this playful, even as guilt tore at him. “What are you doing tomorrow night? Or Saturday?” John asked with faux flirtatiousness. “I have to take some meetings Saturday morning…” End of the week wrap-ups in Canaveral always ruined the start of his weekends in Australia. “But if the weather is good we could run out to the beach Saturday afternoon?”
Even if he wanted to ask permission, Gill was exactly the person he couldn't really tell about the extent of his panic attacks. He didn't think she'd do it on purpose, but Gillian talked to everyone, and sometimes she gossiped without thinking. Only knowing it could get them both in deep trouble had forced her to keep their relationship under wraps this long. John could only ask her to keep so many of his secrets, but if anything about his mental state got out to the rest of the crew, there'd be no covering it up from IASA headquarters. Better that she never knew.
"I cannot believe you. Fine, John, your loss." She hopped down from the desk. He couldn't quite tell if she was actually mad at him for frustrating her, or buying that this was an elaborate tease. “Saturday I’m going dress shopping with Alice, though.” That was Cobb’s wife-to-be, recently detached from RAAF and new to Sydney; some of the other IASA-attached air force women had taken her under their wing, trying to make her feel welcome. Gill tucked her tank top back into her pants and started to do up her overalls.
“It’s going to be later in the day because we’ll probably all be hung over. I have her hen party tomorrow night.” She made a face. Gillian hadn’t been happy about the marriage since she’d pried the details of Cobb’s bucks night out of John, but that wasn’t enough to turn her back on the future bride. She paused with her jumpsuit still half open and leaned back against the edge of his desk, giving him a coy look. “So you really shouldn’t leave me unsatisfied tonight. Who knows what trouble I’ll get up to tomorrow with a few shots in me?”
“I know you’re satisfied,” he shot back, sticking his fingers in his mouth and sucking them clean. The taste of her woke his dick back up enough that he had to firmly adjust it into a slightly more comfortable position. Gill couldn't be too mad, because she watched the path of his fingers. John wasn’t a jealous or insecure guy, he’d rarely had a reason to be, but it was still nice to see his girlfriend clearly interested even when he'd pissed her off. But just past her hip he spotted his cell phone, precariously perched where he'd left it on the edge of the desk. He tucked his own shirt in too, before sitting back down in his chair.
"I guess we'll find out," she scowled at him as she finished zipping up the jumpsuit, before going behind him to shove John and his rolling office chair, closer to his desk. “Enjoy your paperwork. I promised Bix I’d help him study for his next qualifier Sunday morning,” she leaned over his shoulder, running her hands down his chest and into his lap to squeeze his hardness through his slacks. “But Sunday afternoon I’m all yours , and you’ll be all mine .”
Her hands on his cock almost changed John’s mind again, but the way she purred so possessively in his ear reminded him of the conversations they hadn’t had, the relationship they’d fallen into, without talking about what it meant after December. He gripped his armrests as she sighed and let go. As she started to walk around his desk to the door, John stopped her.
“Gill?” She looked back at him, hair straggling free of her ponytail, face losing its flush, soot somehow still smeared on the bridge of her nose. She looked adorable, and hot, and very young. “Have fun tomorrow. Get in as much trouble as you want.” He crinkled his eyes at her, willing himself to grin, to be cool, to be fair. She didn’t owe him anything, especially not now. “You can tell me all about it on Sunday.” He shrugged, still smiling, “Or not?” It would be his penance.
She narrowed her eyes at him, clearly looking for the catch, then returned his grin with an impish one of her own. “Maybe I will. If I think you can handle it.”
John waited until his body calmed down, until a walk around the floor assured him there was no one else left in this wing of the building but a janitor, before he made the call.
He didn’t actually use his office or his IASA cell phone, of course. It was unlikely that anyone would review the logs. Even if they did, and looked up Officer Soon, seeing a dominatrix was the kind of sexual indiscretion that got a guy scolded, not sacked (as long as he didn't try to expense it), apparently especially in Australia. But however blasé the locals on the team were about kinky behavior, John didn’t want any chance of this getting back to his dad . So on the way back to the office earlier that day he'd stopped at a mobile shop and paid cash for a cheap phone with a local sim. This is what he used to call the dominatrix’s number, the only one saved in memory.
After two rings, she answered. “Yes?” The voice on the other end of the line was exactly what he should have expected, throaty and curt.
“Aa— Officer Soon? This is John Crichton.” He didn’t think it was going to feel this awkward.
“How are you, Crichton?” The question was brisk and perfunctory.
“I’m all right. Thank you, really, for the help last night.” He tried to put the honest gratitude he felt into his voice, though maybe too much of his nervousness could be heard instead.
The response only sounded bored. “Is that why you phoned?”
“No. I called… I called to ask again if you’d be willing to work with me.”
There was a longer silence than he liked before she answered him. “You have my card, Crichton." The domme had given him one while helping John into the taxi like an invalid the night before. "Tell me which of those services you are interested in.”
“Right! One sec.” John retrieved it quickly from where he’d hidden it in his wallet and flipped the card over, scanning the long list of mysterious and somewhat alarming phrases. “I don’t know what most of these are,” he admitted. “But it says you do coaching and instruction? That’s what I want.”
“That is meant for instruction in BDSM techniques and safe kink play, not… calming panic attacks. I do have clients that take other kinds of instruction and coaching from me, but I still don’t think it would be what you’re expecting.”
He scanned that card again. “What about sensory stuff? I’m having trouble with sounds. Especially, since… since the accident. Sirens, honking. I need help not overreacting to that.”
“There are some overload techniques we could try, but most people looking for sensory deprivation are seeking mummification, or full body bondage. It’s an escape from the world and its pressures. Does that sound appealing?”
John hated how her voice dipped into sultry during the explanation. Especially because not having to think or feel or do anything sounded actually amazing. When had he turned into such a coward?
“No,” he lied. “Not really. Look, we both know what I want isn’t kinky enough to be on your card, so I don’t know what you want me to say.” He was trying not to sound impatient, but probably failing. “If I ask for obedience training, is that where you start talking about whips and chains?”
“I could. But I’m not trying to talk you into anything, Crichton. I think you should go see a discreet psychologist who deals with PTSD. Since you don’t agree with that obvious answer to your problems, I’m trying to understand what you actually want from me. Where we might have common ground to explore.” The crispness of the Officer’s voice was sharpening with frustration too. “But the way you’re talking isn’t convincing me to make room for you on my client list to find out. Do you even know what power exchange is, Crichton?”
“I take it you aren’t talking about engine mechanics?” John knew he shouldn’t be flippant, Soon was already upset with him for not taking this seriously. But it just slipped out. “I’m sorry.” He took a breath, trying to pull himself together before he blew this. “Most of what I know about dominatrixes I learned from seeing the Rocky Horror Picture Show six times. Not by choice.” Well, and also some of his college buddies had interesting taste in porn. “I don’t understand what I’m asking you for. I just… I need help.”
John could hear the Officer’s sigh. “Yes, that’s obvious, on many levels. But starting with the basics. I am a pro -domme. That means professional dominatrix. People pay me to physically and psychologically dominate them in a variety of ways for a multitude of reasons. While I occasionally do performance work, and community education, which is how we met, most of my clients are in ongoing submissive relationships with me.”
He had spotted ‘ongoing power exchange’ on the card but that didn’t tell him anything. “Can you explain what that means, exactly?” John’s mind offered up some lurid images. “Are you trying to say I have to wear a collar all the time or be on a leash, or something?”
“That’s where your mind goes?” She was back to sounding amused. “Would that be a problem?”
The idea made John cringe, but he needed the domme, so he downplayed it. “It’s kinda silly? So I’d rather not. Plus, the point of coming to you is secrecy, and wearing a dog collar at work isn’t going to help with that. But I guess I don’t mind during sessions, if that’s a requirement to see you.”
“Submission isn’t always that simplistic and literal. We can discuss the symbolism of collars another time. But if we work together, I’ll be making you do a lot of things you’d rather not do. And you need to obey me willingly. Nothing about this is non-consensual, but we will not be equals. Not during our sessions, and not truly outside of them either. Within the context of our relationship I own you. That’s what power exchange means. You give me power over you, within limits we agree to, and I give you…” her voice went artificially husky, “...whatever it is you’re looking for.” She dropped the faux seduction. “If you can’t accept that, this isn’t for you.”
Could he? He knew how to play a role. A semester of Intro to Improv had given him that. Would it be enough to appease Soon? “What does whatever I’m looking for cover?” Therapy wasn't usually included, so what was? Why would anyone be interested in being in a master-servant relationship with someone else unless they were getting something really good out of it?
“You have my card, and if we move forward I have a more comprehensive list. There are services I don’t offer. Scat. Regression. Switching. Certain roleplays. I can refer you to other dominatrixes that offer a wider range of services if that becomes necessary.”
That didn't seem likely, since John didn't understand how she was using those terms either. “I’ll let you know.”
Soon went on in the same matter-of-fact way. “Let me be perfectly clear about sexual services. Any anal penetration would be toys-exclusively, and punishment only. I don't fuck any of my clients' holes. What we do together can be erotic for some, but I do not suck my subs off, give happy endings, or allow my clients to touch me sexually in any way.”
“You know I have a girlfriend!” John spluttered, his brain hiccuping on ‘anal’ and ‘punishment’ and skipping down to ‘erotic’ and ‘happy endings’. Sex wasn’t what he wanted, even if the domme hadn’t actually been a dude. But he was staring at a card listing “Genital Torture” as a service, so it was surprising that Aaron was so adamant about it. Did people really sign up to have their dick in a clamp and not want to get off afterward?
“Most of my submissives do. Or boyfriends. Spouses. Other play partners. But even people in the scene can get confused, or pushy. So I’ve found it’s important to be specific about this, especially with someone inexperienced.”
“Got it. Well, it's not about sex for me. At all .” John wondered if Aaron thought he didn’t know. No, the dom must have realized Gill would tell him about her friend and the scandal. So maybe Aaron assumed he was secretly gay, or at least bisexual? It was definitely a good thing to be clear about.
“Of course. It’s about your panic attacks. And what BDSM might do to address them.” Aaron said sarcastically. “One more time… you understand that I do not have a license to practice therapy? I can’t and won’t take any responsibility if our sessions together cause you to have additional psychological problems because of them.”
“As long as you’re not trying to give me emotional damage, I’m willing to take the risk,” John said. His eyes drifted to the card again. Humiliation & Degradation. “And do things your way.”
“Emotional damage… Some of my clients pay me for what others would call abuse. If I agree to work with you, we’ll discuss your limits around that. However, I have a hold-harmless agreement in all my contracts.”
“Contract?” That scary word again.
“Yes, I require all my clients to sign waivers, and for longer term submissives, there is always a contract. Clear communication is important and protects us both.”
John wasn’t exactly sure what protection they needed. Some quick checks had verified that S&M work was legal in this part of Australia, just like prostitution, which might be why Aaron had to be so clear about what he was and wasn’t willing to do.
It did make it feel a little less like cheating on Gillian to know Officer Soon wasn’t a sex worker, and that stuff wasn’t on the table at all. A little. But going forward with this meant a whole new complication to the discussion John needed to have with Gill about whether she really was his girlfriend, and what that meant for their future. We’re not actually together because I’m leaving in five months and don't want to make promises I can't keep, was honest but painful. Because you can't go with me and I already have a part-time girlfriend, was ground they'd covered last year. But adding and because I’m going to be doing kinky shit with a guy you hate and don’t want to feel guilty about it, can we still sleep together, though? was not going to go well.
“What else usually goes in a contract?” John asked cautiously.
“Compensation. Agreed upon hard limits on activities we will engage in. Safewords and other methods of communication during a session. How we will negotiate changes to any previous agreements. And then the rules that will define our relationship.”
“Rules?” Maybe John should have known that this BDSM stuff would be complicated. “Like what?”
“They are different for each of my clients, but usually I include a few about how you will address me during and outside of sessions, positions you need to adopt at my cue, and some lifestyle rules appropriate to how we are working together.”
John was certainly not intending to make this his lifestyle . “Uh… can you explain more about that?”
“About rules? Well I will choose these for you, and some will not be open to negotiation. I will usually add new ones and adjust old rules after every session. But some examples from past clients…” The dominatrix went silent for a moment, “Asking for permission before removing my collar. Being forbidden favorite foods. Abstaining from orgasm. Writing in a journal every night. Wearing women’s underwear. Reading the bible daily. Fucking their partner between every session. Never looking me in the eye. Taking medication at a precise time every morning… and so on.” John heard a click of nails on keyboard and realized that the slightly bored tone was from the Officer literally reading from something on her computer. “Does that answer your question?”
“I get the idea, I guess, but I don’t understand why you’d ask me to do things like that. Do people get off on being told to eat their vegetables?”
“Sometimes. But it’s not about sex. Rules extend our relationship beyond just the time we spend together and create liminal space for the work itself. Psychologically speaking, they create a framework that makes it easier for my clients to adopt the mindset of being submissive. For people seeking to make meaningful changes, it’s very helpful. Other clients just find it fun.”
“It sounds so complicated.” Legalistic might be a better word. “For someone who isn’t a therapist, you sure talk like one,” he noted. At least when she wasn’t talking like a bad TV villainess.
“I’ve been doing this a while,” Soon said stiffly.
He couldn’t help asking. “How long?” It didn’t matter, but John hadn’t been able to get a good gauge of how old Aaron was, other than probably younger than him. The makeup and gender bending didn’t help.
“Professionally? Almost three years.”
John wondered how long Aaron had been doing BDSM unprofessionally . He hadn’t asked Gillian how long ago Aaron had left the RAAF, but Gill had only been in the military for five years. (John knew that because they'd talked last year about her ROSO—because of extra training she'd received, Gill was committed for another three years.) Had Aaron started drag dominatrix work before or after separation?
“Is Cobb one of your clients?” He wasn’t sure why he asked that either, except that the local RAAF folks seemed weirdly wrapped up in this S&M stuff, and his initiation had started with Cobb.
Aaron’s voice hardened immediately. “I never talk about my clients.”
“It’s just that I work with him, and it could be awkward—”
“I never talk about my clients,” Aaron repeated, cutting him off. “If you are concerned with your reputation, you won’t talk about what we do together either. With anyone.”
“Oh, I wasn’t going to— I mean, of course not!” John suddenly thought about Gillian. “Um.. is that a rule?”
“It’s advice,” Soon said flatly. “I can make it a rule, if you prefer. Some men enjoy discussing our sessions with their lovers. Others want to keep it a secret, and want me to enforce that too.”
John didn’t want to talk about this with Gillian, or with Caroline or D.K. for that matter. But hiding it felt wrong too. He fiddled with the pen on the desk, and cleared his throat. “Are all of your clients men?”
“I never talk about my clients,” she said in the same bored tone. “I know you’re not stupid, Crichton. So is this persistence going to be a habit? I can handle a bratty sub, but I do charge extra for it.”
“I… um… I don’t know exactly what you mean. I’m not trying to be difficult.”
“Must be natural talent.”
John just let that pass by. “You called me a client. Does that mean you agree to train me?”
There was silence on the other end of the line for a few seconds. “You still have no idea what you’re asking me for, do you? Either that or you are deliberately trolling me.”
John had no idea what he’d said wrong this time. “I’m sorry, I’m really not trying to piss you off. What can I say to convince you to work with me?” He’d already begged, but he could do it again, if that’s what the domme needed from him.
He just heard the rattle of her breath on the receiver for several long seconds. “I will probably regret this, but I will see you for an initial session. Usually I schedule the interview separately but since you are so insistent ,” Soon’s voice went rumbly with irritation, “on rushing into this, I can combine this with your first session. That tribute will be $300.”
“Three—” It shouldn’t have surprised him that what Aaron wanted from him was money.
The dom spoke over him, “if we both agree to go forward, my rate will be $150 an hour for in-person sessions and $50 for phone appointments under half an hour, $100 for over. I will be making time for you at the expense of other clients, so I expect a long-term commitment to at least one weekly session and phone follow up.”
“”I’m only here until Christmas,” John said distractedly, doing the math in his head and trying not to get mad.
“That’s long enough," Aaron said briskly. "I’ll include the details in your contract, but do we have an agreement?”
John hesitated. Astronauts were still government workers, better on the benefits than the pay. But John didn’t have many vices other than classic cars and big TVs. And he didn’t have any real expenses right now. He’d sublet his apartment in Florida to another astronaut, and IASA was paying for food, housing, and transportation while he was in Australia. So it wasn’t that he couldn’t afford it. Just the feeling that he was being taken advantage of. “Fine, yes,” he muttered. If it didn’t feel like it was worth it after the first session he could quit. If it helped, it was a cheap price to save his career. “But that isn’t the rate on your card.”
“I charge difficult clients more.” The dom said coolly, back to brisk professionalism. ”I assume you have an email address? A personal account would be best.”
“Uh, yeah. Sure.” John felt his heart starting to speed up. He was really going to do this. “Major Tom 67 at Hotmail dot com.”
“67?” she asked.
“Yes.” His birth year had been the first number to pop into his head when [email protected] had already been taken.
“Hmm. You’re younger than I thought.” John listened to the click of nails on a keyboard while he tried to decide if it was more annoying that Aaron had guessed the number’s meaning instantly, or that the dom had thought he looked older than he was. At least it was only a minute until the cool voice punctured his thoughts again. “Can you access it now?”
“Sure.” John opened up Netscape, the browser he used for his non-work Internet activities, and logged in. He had a few emails waiting, from his little sister, one of his college buddies, and Caroline. But the newest was from [email protected] with the subject: ‘Email verification’. The body of the email read, ‘If this email address is correct, say “I am a big gay astronaut.”’
“I’m not gay!” John protested immediately. After a brief moment of silence, he heard a click. Looking at his new phone, the display blinked “CALL ENDED”. He sat there for a stunned few seconds, wondering if the call had accidentally dropped, before realizing that it had been another test, but this one he’d failed. He was supposed to just do what he was told, even if it was stupid or embarrassing. Was that it? One mistake and he was done? John hit redial.
On the third ring the call picked up, though the Officer didn’t speak. “I am a big gay astronaut!” John said into the quiet, feeling ridiculous.
“You got my message. Good,” the dominatrix said with a slight edge. “I am sending you a document now. Print it, fill it out as completely and honestly as you can, and return it to the counter at The Leviathan no later than noon on Saturday. They can also take your payment. If you do that, I can accommodate you for a session at sixteen hundred hours on Sunday.”
“Sunday? I can’t—” John stopped himself. If he put her off, the Officer would just refuse to help him. Gill would have to understand. He’d tell her a meeting came up. He’d tell her something. “I can do that. I’ll be there.”
“Of course you will,” she said. “And you will not be late.” There was another click and the line went dead.
John stood over the printer until it was finished, and then double checked the paper feed to be sure no trace was left behind. This wasn’t the sort of misuse of office equipment he could explain; butt cheek scanning would be better. Back in the safety of his office, John flipped through the pages, wondering yet again just what exactly he’d gotten himself into.
The start was clear enough, his name, contact information and emergency contacts. John put down Olivia. She would tease him until the end of his life if she got a call from a dominatrix because he’d had to go to the hospital, but she’d never tell dad. Slightly concerning was the comprehensive list of medical conditions the Officer wanted to know about, but it probably made sense to be aware of carpal tunnel, heart conditions, diabetes, and similar issues. He didn’t have anything to report anyway.
Then there was a section for describing his previous experience with pro-dommes, none, and the type of experience he was looking for. This was his first set of checkboxes, with over a dozen items like "date to connect", "kinky fitness session", "bondage-focused", and "foot worship." Not knowing what else to do, he checked off "introductory session" and "casual, no fetish" and moved on.
How did he see himself in a BDSM context? The choices were words like slave, submissive, sissy, bottom and several more. Luckily they all had definitions—John would never have known the differences otherwise—but that didn't help him pick. None of them felt right. He didn't want to give up his autonomy or serve anyone. He definitely wasn't interested in being someone's pet. He just wanted to feel better, to feel in command of himself again. Was he a masochist? John picked "I don't know, lets explore" as the safest option, but that didn't seem all that safe.
After that he had to pick his preference for the mistress's mood and appearance. John didn't know this was going to be so much like a Chinese takeout menu. Apparently there was an upcharge for lingerie and a considerable one for latex, judging by the dollar signs next to these, but John happily checked off "Butch" in the hopes that it would be both less distracting to him and less work for Aaron. He was tempted to check "casual and friendly" for demeanor though he couldn't imagine the dominatrix actually being easy going. Even in street clothes Aaron was domineering and scornful. But that probably wouldn't be helpful for working on his problems, so he skipped past terms like nurturing, merciless, teasing, and manipulative, to settle on "strict disciplinarian". All of these questions had the option to just leave it in Aaron's hands, but John wanted to control what he could.
The last part of the page had lines for writing in why he wanted to see the Officer. John could tell this had been edited, while they were on the phone probably, because there was a second section, with slightly different formatting, that asked him to “describe the accident that is causing your panic attacks. Be specific about what triggers them and what that feels like.” He summarized the desire to get rid of or manage his panic attacks in a couple quick sentences. He'd justified this to himself enough times in the last 24 hours to have a ready answer. But it took longer to find the words for the accident. By the time he'd scratched out a stilted description of the rain, the darkness, honking horns, police and ambulance sirens, screaming, that he had trouble driving, the gray outs, how a man had died, John's hands were shaking and he felt light-headed.
Instead of pushing on, John got up to find the soda machine, making his way through the thankfully empty office. He leaned against its plastic bulk, alternating between pressing the cold can to his forehead and taking gulps, feeling the tiny bubbles fizz down his throat. When his heart finally returned to normal, John took the rest of the soda back to his desk to finish the questionnaire.
The bulk of the remaining paperwork was a long list of kinky shit, in what seemed like unnecessary detail. It went on for pages, and there was a seven-point scale at the top of each, which he was supposed to use to rate each of the activities: Respectfully Request > Enthusiastic Yes > Interested In Exploring > Neutral > No Interest > Punishment Only > Hard No. They were grouped under headings like "impact play," "feminization" and "role-play scenarios". There were so many little circles to fill in, John was having Scantron flashbacks to college. In fact he thought he’d drunkenly filled out a purity test with some of these things on it, freshman year. His score had dropped a little since then, but not enough. It would have been easier to fill out if John knew what more of these activities were.
Was there really that big a difference between paddles and floggers and whips? Was "dragon's tail" as cool as it sounded? And what did "OTK spanking" mean? On the keister? John didn't feel enthusiastic about any of this, especially remembering how his body had reacted to the Officer using the crop on him.
Did there need to be a whole half page listing of different sensory play activities? Tickling and ear plugs and ice didn't sound so bad. Scratching and hair pulling felt a little too sexual. And then it got worse from there. In between "nipple torture" and "face slapping" he spotted CBT, a weird placement, but the rare acronym he actually recognized, and one of the only things he felt capable of marking "respectfully request". Even though Aaron had protested several times he didn't offer therapy, apparently there was a sexy version?
John had made it to the roleplay scenarios section. Did he want to know how "gang bang" was going to work with a no-sex dominatrix? (Also, yikes!) Medical treatments? Absolutely NOT. Prison? Kidnapping? He could see where that last one could be kinda hot, maybe, with a person you trusted to blindfold you and take you to a romantic lodge with a fireplace and a big bed. Not sure how that was supposed to be fun for someone in a BDSM dungeon with fucking not on offer. Not wanting to just cross out the whole list, John put “neutral” for that one, and "no interest" or "hard no" on the rest. He did the same on the weird sissy stuff.
The bondage section was longer than the sensory one, but embarrassing as it was, John already knew he was kinda into some of this. Plus if the Officer had him tied up, it might be easier to get through whatever else she had in mind for his training. "Inescapable" and "escape fantasy" both sounded intriguing and probably shouldn't. He said no to genital bondage and gas masks, and he wasn't sure about straight jackets and plastic wrap. But most of the rest he at least marked as interested, and suspension got the rare "enthusiastic yes".
The last major section was called "edge play" and was a weird grab bag of things like "forced submission", "violet wand", "candle wax", "breath play", "trampling", and only one that made sense: "knife play." He didn't really know what to think about most of them, but marked that one a "hard NO." It was followed by a bunch of "fetishes" which he just said no to down the list.
After what felt like forever he reached the end of the kinks. There was a final question about whether he could be marked (he picked "only for a few hours") and a linear scale for his pain and sensory tolerance. That went from "compassionate touching only", "teasing/denial", and "no pain", all the way up to "clinical torture" and "heavy sadism". John had no idea how to judge that, and settled on "strict/moderate pain" for his max.
There was one more set of lines for writing down his hard limits ("not already specified"), but after the dizzying hour he'd just spent going through an encyclopedia of awful activities, John didn't know what was truly out of bounds anymore. "Public stuff, sex stuff, butt stuff" he wrote awkwardly, feeling himself start to flush. "Nothing permanent, no pictures, nothing medical, no crossdressing." After a second, though, John wondered if that would sound too critical, or pointed at Aaron. There wasn't even any reason for that stuff to come up, he just didn't like the idea of having to wear girls underwear or something. It wasn't that big a deal, he could just use a safeword if he wasn't comfortable, right? John scratched that last part out, then covered it with White Out too. There, done.
The last page was just a bunch of things he had to initial, mostly related to fees. Being late would forfeit the time, being more than fifteen minutes late and he would forfeit the session and its fee entirely. Canceling less than 24 hours before an in-person session or six hours before a phone appointment forfeited half the fee, and so on. Then there was this final interesting paragraph:
“The Officer understands that you may wish to show your appreciation for her time. Ask permission before purchasing any clothing or accessories. Gifts relating to your session desires are acceptable. Additional tribute is preferred.” John was a little confused by the language, but it seemed like he was expected to bring the domme presents too? It felt a little like tipping your therapist. But if his last therapist had looked hot in a leather catsuit, maybe they would have deserved it. John shook his head vigorously, trying to rid it of the picture of Dr. Kazinski, a balding, soft-bodied, middle-aged man with the physique of a bread loaf, stuffed into skintight patent leather.
He skimmed through the pages one last time, making sure he hadn't skipped any lines or questions. He had marked almost nothing outside the Bondage section higher than "Neutral" with most of the dots being "No Interest" or "Hard No". Would Aaron reject him for being too straight, too vanilla? John hesitated, then used the White Out to change a couple more items to "Interested in Exploring" just so he didn't look too boring. Then he made sure the stack was in numeric order, and double-checked that he hadn't left any pages on the desk before stapling it all together.
Not knowing what else to do with the packet of papers, or wanting to risk any chance of mixing them in with the rest of his paperwork, John found a big manila envelope and stuffed them inside, sealing the whole confusing mess away. Just to be sure it couldn’t get mistaken for a report, he wrote “Officer Soon” on the front, and sat there, wondering if he was really going to turn this in, and if he wanted to change any more of his answers first.
In the end he left the paperwork sealed. But he didn't know how late it was, and didn’t want to check, before he was able to get back to his actual job.
That yellow envelope, now safely tucked away in his work bag, wouldn’t quite leave his thoughts. Even as John worked methodically through the box of nose cone panels Gill had brought him, ensuring each was labeled and prepping individual requests for spectroanalysis, odd phrases from the other paperwork kept popping into his head.
What sane guy signed up for "small penis humiliation"? Why were sounding rods in the medical play section? Did Aaron really own chastity cages, and how did that work? What would it feel like to be spit on? That was the only item he'd marked "Punishment Only," John realized. Should he open the envelope back up and pick a few more? Was he really signing up to be beaten into not having panic attacks? Was this actually going to work?
He was reaching down for his briefcase when smudges of gray and black on the white stack of registered pieces caught his eye. Some of these panels were showing heavy scorching, some weren't. John dragged his attention back to the work, checking the numbers on the scraps, and mentally reassembling the nose cone to decide if there was a pattern. But he couldn't escape his thoughts.
Leashes had been on the list. Had he marked that "hard no" or "no interest"? Was it really that bad? Why did the thought of having lipstick put on scare him? He'd done it for Rocky, and Aaron was obviously great at doing makeup. Was "strap-ons" on the list for female clients, or were there guys who got off on wearing an extra penis? Or was that something Aaron would use on him because Officer Soon wasn't supposed to have a dick? Or because that didn't count as fucking? The rules about overtly sexual stuff confused him. He'd said "NO", whatever it meant. Should he have said yes to "fire cupping"? It was right after "fire play" which had sounded too risky, but that was an asian massage thing, wasn't it? John had a brief mental image of matching red rings on the skin, like the suckers marks from an attacking octopus.
Wait, the flame blast alignment in the lab had been precisely calibrated. Scorching should have been symmetric and it wasn't. Something had gone wrong with the coating on this piece. Wanting to mark a section of its form in red, for special attention, John looked around his desk for a marker before remembering the earlier reason his workspace had been left in disarray. He saw the spilled pencil cup on the floor on the far side of his desk.
Standing to clean it up, John couldn't ignore anymore that the uncomfortable tension in his shorts had returned, requiring a quick readjustment before he could comfortably crouch down to retrieve his pens. It wasn’t the envelope and its contents. It was the memory of Gillian, in his lap, clutching at the edge of his desk, unable to stop him, to stop herself from coming, that was making his pants tight, making it hard to concentrate on the forms in front of him once he sat back down.
There was one easy solution, and it was late enough, and the office empty enough, for him to head to a bathroom stall to seek it. John was always careful to be circumspect, but sometimes a little post-nut clarity was just what a tricky problem needed. And long hours in the lab didn’t usually leave much time for seeing his girlfriends, especially since John had always had a strict ‘not in the workplace’ policy before Gillian. He hadn’t needed this particular relief since his return to Australia.
Everything tonight felt different, but John tried not to think about why as he lifted the seat up, unzipped, and took the issue out. A quick swipe of his palm to spread the seepage around was all he needed to harden completely again, and he found his rhythm quickly. He tried to remember what Gill had sounded like earlier, tried to push aside the idea that it wasn't his own hand gripping his cock, but one more slender, long-fingered and unrelenting. No, it was Gillian’s small strong hand rubbing and teasing, playing with him, tormenting him. She was never quite firm enough when they messed around, but he could fix that now, increasing the pressure as he searched for release.
Nonsensically, he started mentally counting strokes as he chased the orgasm. One, two, three, four and back down to one again firmer and faster until it started to chafe. John spit in his hand rather than stop to find anything better. Pulling at himself almost brutally, on the edge of pain, then over, he sank his own nails into the shaft, squeezing repeatedly, twisting the tip, everything suddenly on fire until he was splattering into the bowl with surprising force. John milked the last of it out carefully, oversensitive and tender now, trying to catch his breath, leaning over the toilet, with his other hand pressed into the cold tile wall, propping him up until the dizziness passed.
Recovered, John felt more than usually dirty. He washed his hands in the sink, scrubbing until they were red and the water was running hot. He splashed his face a couple times too, despite the heat, then found a paper towel to clean up. Mopping at his face and neck was a weird moment to remember a strong hand rubbing up and down his throat, a warm cloth soothing him. Like last night, John needed a shave, the roughness tearing at the wet paper. He should probably go home. He had a long day tomorrow too, more materials analysis meetings. He wasn’t going to solve the module’s heat problems, or his own, at almost midnight. He threw the towel away and checked himself in the mirror, making sure there weren’t shreds of paper caught in the tiny hairs.
Microtexture. Air molecules behaved differently against an uneven surface. Like the prickles of beard stubble or taste buds on the tongue, invisibly small protrusions on the skin of the module could encourage heat dispersion and either prevent fusion or prompt atoms to explode away from the skin just far enough to prevent critical heat absorption. He’d have to find the right balance of size and shape to prevent aerodynamic destabilization, and the materials would have to be durable enough to not simply melt, but it was a new direction to explore. Equations started to pop into his head and John fled the bathroom, grabbing the nearest empty whiteboard to begin working the math.
John could have left dropping off his “interview packet” until Saturday, but he took the train downtown at lunch the next day just to get it off his mind. He wore a big overcoat even though the weather had warmed to merely cold and gray, because it was the only thing he had with an inside pocket large enough to cram the yellow envelope into and he really didn’t want that thing in his IASA-issued briefcase.
He stepped off the tram into a neighborhood that was already becoming familiar, and headed down Liverpool to Royal. John could feel his chest tightening as he moved closer to The Leviathan and he wasn’t sure what was causing the tension, until he arrived in front, where the accident had been two days before. There was no sign, though, except a couple sprays of crushed plastic and glass in the road that hadn’t yet been swept away, and he found himself breathing easier as he walked down the short hallway to the atrium.
Entering the shop, it was busier than he expected for the middle of the day, with a few solo men, and one couple browsing the aisles. This made John too self-conscious to immediately approach the counter. Besides, Jan was helping a stocky Samoan man with a mass of hair pulled back tightly in a way that tugged at his memory. That first night, at the bucks party, Officer Soon had ‘her’ hair bound that way, into a short, leather-wrapped queue.
But the man whose wide back was to him now could never be mistaken for Aaron. “I am not interested in excuses,” he snapped, in a resonant baritone that filled the store. “Just tell me when the rest of my order will be complete!” John couldn’t hear Jan's response, just the level murmur of her voice, placating.
“I hate that shitcunt,” came a gruff comment from the next aisle, not particularly quiet either.
The speaker was a startlingly tall man, that John hadn’t noticed because he’d been kneeling down when John came in, stocking dirty magazines. Like everyone working at The Leviathan , this guy had a walky-talky clipped to his shoulder, and like almost everyone working there, he didn’t look like a retail clerk in any other way. Not only did he tower over John by several inches, he was intimidatingly buff. Heavy muscles were barely contained by a frayed gray long sleeve worn under an oversized black band shirt that was loose everywhere except his chest and shoulders.
Tribal tattoos showed at the neckline, coming up one side of his throat and along the right side of his face. John still wasn’t great at identifying ethnicity in this part of the world, but from the man’s size, darker complexion, and long dreadlocks gone red at the ends from time and sun-bleaching, John thought he was either part African, or from Fiji or somewhere else in Melanesia, though he sounded pure Aussie.
“Is he a regular?” John asked after a moment, following the big man’s gaze back to the register, where the jerk was throwing his credit card on the counter rather than putting it in Jan’s outstretched hand.
“Kinda,” he shrugged, turning to face John more squarely. “You lost?” The look he was giving John was somewhere between speculative and hostile.
John didn’t know what a Leviathan customer was supposed to look like, that meant he didn’t fit; maybe it was his accent again. This didn’t seem to be a part of Sydney that got a lot of tourists. “No, I'm here to drop something off for Aaron.” He tried a friendly smile, holding his hand out. “I’m John.”
The offered handshake was ignored, and the smile unreturned. The other man just frowned. “You making a joke, or is that just a coincidence?”
A joke? His name? The big guy continued to stare at him so speculatively, John had to fight not to straighten up for an extra inch of height. “Just a coincidence. My parents had boring taste in names.”
This finally elicited a small smile, which changed the whole character of the guy’s face. He looked like he liked to laugh, but perhaps didn’t get a lot of chances. “Mine too. I’m Daniel.”
“Hi Daniel. Do you think she needs help?” John nodded over at the counter again. Peter was there too, of course, he was a fixture apparently. But the quiet giant had slumped behind his monitors, clearly staying out of whatever fuss the Samoan man was making.
“Nah, Jan can handle him. She’s better at dealing with assholes than I am.” Daniel shrugged. “He spends a lot of money, and that’s just one of the reasons not to piss him off.”
John wanted to know the other reasons, but just then a pointedly insincere “Thank you,” marked the end of the transaction. “I suppose I’ll return next week,” was the big spender’s final parting shot. John turned back to see the ‘shitcunt’ heading their way.
John caught a good look at the irate customer as the man stomped back up the aisle. The Samoan was maybe a decade older than him, and powerful in build, not just energy. Not quite as tall as John, but outweighing him by a good thirty pounds that looked solid, only a slight softening as concession to maturity. He would be handsome too, if not for the expression on his face so sour you’d think he’d never been impressed by anything in his life and had no plans to ever be pleased in the future. He had a powerful jaw, and close-clipped goatee that accented the angles of his face. Black-brown eyes flickered over John, sweeping him up and down and dismissing him again in the space of two steps. The dark gaze skipped over to Daniel, next to him, prompting an even more immediate snarl, but he was moving past and out the door too quickly for either of them to comment.
“So….” John twisted his head both ways, to loosen his suddenly tight neck. “Anyway…” There was an awkward weight to the air, even now that the rude guy was gone. “Do you know if Aaron is around?”
“Not in the store or the back,” Daniel shook his head. dreadlocks flapping. “Upstairs maybe. Lots of customers sneak in for a noon quickie,” he narrowed his eyes at John with more sneer than smile. “But I wouldn’t knock on the door if you aren’t expected. Aaron’s a bitch about being interrupted.”
“Noted.” John didn’t like the way Dan was looking at him now, or the way the clerk talked about Aaron, like he was a gigalo, not a dom. Maybe there was some kind of beef between the two of them. It wasn’t his business though so John just nodded toward the counter. “So I guess I’ll…”
“Yeah. Good idea,” the other man said flatly, but then stopped him. “Hey,” Daniel motioned to his side of the racks. “The new Marquis just came in from Germany, want it?”
“I’m good, thanks though,” John demurred. He had absolutely no idea what that was, and he was afraid to find out. The sales clerks here were aggressively good at their job and apparently convinced he was a total perv. It was uncomfortable. He headed quickly for the center console before Chelsea could pop up to talk him into a vibrator or something.
“Hi,” he greeted Jan, who was wearing more casual clothes today, if jeans and a fading royal blue T-shirt with “Fuck Howard” in a clashing red letters even qualified as casual. Apparently the lack of a dress code at The Leviathan started at the top. “Um… I have something to drop off for Aaron.”
The older woman looked at his face intently for a moment. Her eyes were almost as blue as the shirt, beautiful, and framed with long lashes and navy eyeliner. She didn’t seem to be wearing much else in the way of makeup, but even at her age (pushing 50 if John had to guess) she didn’t need it. “You’re John Crichton.”
“Y-yeah. We actually met a couple weeks ago, at a bachelor’s— bucks party.” And when he’d come with Gillian for the couple's session, a few days earlier, but he hoped she didn’t remember that.
“Yes, I remember you. Air force gentlemen, and their pet American. How are you, John?”
He wasn’t sure he liked the term ‘pet’ or being on first name basis with a sex shop store manager, but she didn’t seem hostile or even to be teasing him which was an improvement on the rest of the staff. “Good, I guess,” he lied, pulling the envelope, slightly bent, out of the long inside pocket of his overcoat. “I think I’m supposed to give this to you?” He could feel his cheeks starting to burn, even though there was no way the older woman could see the contents.
Not being sure how secure the store would be, especially with kids like Chelsea around, John had sealed the envelope with packing tape, not just the brass tab. Jan fingered the tape with long, ring-covered fingers, then looked back up at him. “I’ll see that Officer Soon gets it. I’m so pleased you made a connection, even after… Wednesday night.”
Damn it, she did remember. And Jan was probably speculating about why Gillian stormed out if he was back here again to see the dominatrix without her. “Yeah, um, look, I’m sorry about that. There was a misunderstanding—” he trailed off as the manager held up both hands to stop him.
“No explanation needed, John. People respond to our classes and experiences in a lot of ways. Nothing to apologize for, or be embarrassed about. We’re just glad you’re back to explore on your own.”
The soothing way she said it, would have made John feel a little better, except for that last part. “Oh, it’s not like that—” actually it was exactly like that. He could feel his face going hotter. “I mean— could you tell me, possibly, what Gil— my girlfriend paid? I’d like to cover her costs.”
Either his blushing or the stammering was making Jan stare at him again. “I can check,” she said after a moment, opening a drawer and pulling out a few pleather-bound ledgers, checking in them until she found the one she wanted, flipping to part way through and scanning a half-empty page. “Ryan? Couple’s Kink Exploration, $175.” She held the ledger a little farther away from her face, “Peter, what does ‘BC’ mean?”
“Bankcard,” came the immediate response, without even turning his head to look. It was the first time John had actually heard the giant say anything. Peter’s voice was higher pitched than he expected.
“Oh, I thought we were using ‘CC’ for credit card,” she frowned, before looking up at John. “If you wanted to pay instead, I could reverse the charge, though there’s a 5% card fee I can’t return. It’s up to you.” She pulled a small yellow Post-It note that had been tacked to the same page, holding it at arm’s reach to read. “Your charges are $300 for Sunday’s session. Does that sound right?”
John had made sure to get plenty of cash out—this wasn’t something he wanted to put on the IASA card and he didn’t have his own that worked in Australia—but adding in Gill's fees would clear his wallet. Reversing the charges would save him an awkward conversation with Gillian, though, or at least delay it, so it was worth it. Maybe she’d think Aaron just refunded her fee out of guilt. “That’s fine. Please do that, and let me know the total for both?”
Jan smiled. “Of course,” she said and started to work on the transaction, which took a couple minutes and another consultation with Peter. As she was finally making change for the eyewatering number of bills he had to hand over, Jan paused to give John another searching look. “You have a very unusual energy, John Crichton. You’re a dreamer, a romantic, and that isn’t usually what brings people to The Leviathan .” She set the change into his hand, letting her own warm palm rest on his for a moment. “I hope you will find what you’re seeking.”
He didn’t know what to say, what people usually came there for. Romance seemed like what they were selling, or at least fantasies of it. And fantasies and dreams weren’t so very far apart. But John wasn’t there for either, Jan was right about that at least. “Thanks,” he said with an awkward swallow. “Me too.”