Hansel 1-4: The Complete Series (5 page)

CHAPTER SEVEN

Leah

Present Time

I know it’s a long shot, but on Monday morning, as my family leaves Vegas, I take a cab to The Forest and tell the man at the front desk I’m there for the sub audition.

I’m not sure what I’ll do if I’m told that it’s too late.

More than anything, I want to see and talk to Hansel, but I’m not so sure there’s a point. If he’s in a BDSM relationship with someone else…

I bite my lip as the man at the desk makes a call.

I’m just not sure what I would say to him. If I could talk to him without losing my shit.

Turns out, I don’t have to figure out quite yet. The man behind the desk hangs up the phone, and before he can even open his mouth to tell me what he found out, the double doors my sisters and I entered through the other night swing open, and a man with red suspenders, a fro, and a nametag that says RAYMOND appears. He’s clutching a clipboard, like the girl who used to oversee cheerleading tryouts at my high school.

His eyes run up and down me, gentle, but obviously assessing, and I start to sweat in my black jeans and plain white t-shirt.

“What’s your name, honey?”

“Lauren,” I lie. I’m not sure why, I just can’t be Leah—not at this second.

He jerks his head toward the foyer behind him and says, “Come on with me, Lauren.”

Elation sweeps through me. I almost can’t make my legs work fast enough to follow him.

He holds the door for me, and when I step into the huge room, I try not to look around. He points to a leather wing-backed chair. “Sit on down there.” He looks down at his clipboard, then up, into my eyes. “Those blue eyes or gray?” He squints.

“They’re blue,” I half-whisper.

He nods once and scribbles something.

“How old are you, Lauren?”

“Twenty-five.” It’s true—I really am.

He bobs his head again, then looks down at his watch. “Come on with me. We’ll see if we can work you in.”

I follow him through the foyer, still trying to ignore the stone walls and the little balconies that remind me so much of the night Mother led me to my room. He leads me down the torch-lit hall, past the replica
David
statue, and past the door we entered into to go to the show on Friday. After maybe twenty more steps, he stops at an inconspicuous little door marked ‘private’.

It’s got a dark gray floor that’s either some kind of cement or some kind of stone, and taupe-brown walls that are speckled, every five or six feet, with small scone lamps. Running down the middle of the hall is a very plush beige rug.

He takes three big strides, with me right on his heels, and pushes open a wooden door, into a little office with a nice wood desk and built-in shelves.

“If you want to audition to be a sub, you’ve gotta sign a NDA. You know what that is?” he asks.

“Yes.” I swallow as he holds out a packet of papers and a pen.

My eyes flit over it, but I can’t read any of the words. I lick my lips and look back up at him. “Is this for…Edgar? Because I thought…”

“It’s for no one. Not until you sign it, baby.”

I chew my lip and nod slowly.

“Read over it, sign it if you like. Then we’ll talk more.”

My hand shakes so hard, I can barely sign my name. I’m grateful that the old man walks over to one of the shelves and starts thumbing through a book. I worry if he saw my hands, he might not let me audition at all. I probably seem crazy.

I am crazy.

Maybe he has eyes in the back of his head, because the moment I initial in the last blank, he turns around and gives me a smile. It looks surprisingly genuine.

“Finished? Any questions?”

I inhale.

“Questions?” he chirps.

Another deep breath, if my voice has any shot at working. “Edgar?” I say thinly.

He steps over to the table, puts his hands behind his back, and starts speaking almost as fast as an auctioneer.

“Yes ma’am, this absolutely confidential audition is indeed for Edgar. You’re trying out to serve as his private sexual submissive, applicable in any context he chooses for you. Giving him full rights, full control of every aspect of your person for engagement in a traditional or untraditional dom-sub relationship. It lasts until Mr. Edgar says it’s over. When he does, it’s over. No ifs, ands, buts. This was in the contract, honey, but it’s nice to have it told to you. Helps people remember, see what I mean?”

I nod slowly.

“Very good. You will wear a mask at all times, you will speak in a whisper or near whisper. You will keep your body in the shape it’s in right now today—no gaining weight or losing weight, no breast implants, facial or other cosmetic surgeries. You can do that?”

I nod again. My hand drifts up toward my throat. It’s grown so tight, I’m surprised I’m still breathing.

“You decide to violate the NDA, you will run into lawyers. Lots and lots of lawyers. They’re not nice. You see?”

Another nod.

I would never say a word to anyone about Hansel. Or Edgar, as he’s calling himself now.

I feel sick as he waves me toward the door, and I follow him down the hall a little ways, to a door with a keypad and a card-slider. He slides a card, and the light beside the card-slider turns from red to green.

As he pushes the door open, I think about running.

That’s how nervous I am.

How outright
scared
I am.

This man is not my Hansel.

My Hansel is gone.

My chest feels so heavy, I can barely get my diaphragm to rise.

My eyes ache from holding back tears.

“You coming?”

“Yes,” I rasp.

We walk into a kitchen and my eyes drink in the details. Granite countertops; stainless steel; what look like real hardwood floors. The kitchen opens to an opulent living area, covered with a high-quality oriental rug and furnished with dark woods, leathers, wools; stocked with an enormous, wall-mounted flatscreen, a few canvases depicting colored squares, some sculptures. I notice a statue of a bird in one corner and remember something Hansel said a long time ago, about the forest paintings on both our walls being void of any birds.

This is a mistake.

I’m going to upset him.

He’s going to upset me.

Why did I think this was a good idea?

Before I can back out, Raymond hands me a black velvet bag and points toward a door on the other side of the couch.

“That’s the powder room. Go and change. The mask is important, like we talked about.”

I nod slowly. I’m still not sure. Not sure if I can do this. But I take the bag and go into the bathroom.

I open it slowly, because my hands are still shaking. Because I’m scared of what’s inside.

I reach into the bag and feel…it must be silk.

I spread my fingers, scooping up all the fabric, and drag it out like it’s a viper. I set it on the gray and gold countertop—granite, too, I think. Once I see it, every cell inside of me goes still.

The royal blue teddy is…exquisite. Its quality is evident in the cut of the bodice, in the flare of the skirt. It’s embellished with lace and a few tiny, crystalline beads that glitter in the light from the lamp above the large, onyx-framed mirror in front of me.

There are a pair of thigh-highs to match, plus a garter. Is that what it’s even called? It’s strappy, and it holds the stockings up. Attaches them to…
oh
, this thing. The slip of fabric was hiding behind the teddy. It’s like a bathing suit. But at the bottom, like a double thong…

No—
crotchless
.

Oh
.

Wow.

My face heats up.

I’m holding onto the panty part of the getup when an image from our shared past slams into my head: My hands—fingers spread wide and wrapped around his hips. Fingertips pressed into his rock hard abs. My head is angled up so I can see his face. His luscious lips are parted just a little. His chin is raised, like he’s on the verge of throwing his head back. And his eyes. Instead of being shut, so he can enjoy the feeling of claiming my virginity, his eyes are on my face. Gently, softly, sweetly on my face.

I know exactly which moment this was, when I see the image in my head.

It was Hansel as he pushed inside me.

Because a moment after that, he did shut his eyes. He threw his head back, and he moaned as he settled deep inside me.

I clench a little at the memory, and I think about him now. The man I saw up on the stage. Behind the glass.

He was bigger. So much larger. Not a man—a boy. He was well built, with a large frame and big bones, the night I finally saw him face-to-face. But he was younger. Ten years younger. He was seventeen then. He’s twenty-seven now.

I gather up the outfit and press it to my chest.

I wonder what he would be like. What he is like. Hansel, now.

As I change into my royal blue outfit, I wonder one last time if this is the way to go about it. If I should end this ruse right now and tell Raymond who I really am and see if he would see me—Edgar. I can’t imagine he’d say no.

Unless he was embarrassed.

I think he maybe would be.

The guy I knew was kind. He was Type A and restless, always trying to use pieces of his furniture to work out; always asking for my books so he could read and re-read them… Driven. Yes, he was that, too. But he was also kind.

I know his life before I met him took a toll on him, but I would never have guessed how much. Maybe he was being made into this by the experiences of The House, but he wasn’t like this. Not yet.

How would he feel if he knew I’d gotten this close to him, without him even knowing I was here in Vegas?

He might not want to see me.

I assume, at least, that he might not want me to know about his life as a dom.

Maybe that’s not true. Maybe I’m being judgmental.

A worse thought dawns on me: What if I approach him as myself and, for whatever reason, he denies being Hansel at all.

It’s not as if I know his real name. I can’t prove he’s Hansel. And the girl I met in the women’s room said he was hard to get a face-to-face with, so theoretically, he could just have Raymond send me away.

The idea of losing this, the only chance I know for sure I have to see him again, makes my stomach churn.

I pull the teddy the rest of the way over my head. When I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, my mouth lolls open just a little.

It hugs me just right. It makes my C-cup boobs look huge, like Ds. It tapers in a little at my high waist, so my backside looks even bigger than it is—but in a sexy way. As if it was made for me. Chills sweep over my arms, because my blue eyes look bluer, and my blonde hair brighter. My favorite color is blue. My Hansel knew this.

I smile into the mirror, but it’s wobbly. After that, I clamp my teeth down on my lip, and work my way into the rest of the outfit.

Then the mask.

The royal blue mask seems almost magical. It’s not plastic, fabric, or any other material I can name. The texture is almost like slightly hardened silk. It neither completely conforms to the lines of my face, nor does it sit, hard and plastic-y, atop them. It wraps around my head with two thin straps that don’t pull my hair at all, and in the front, it looks like a slightly larger version of a traditional masquerade ball mask. It covers my brow and cheeks, with twin holes for my eyes, but instead of ending on my cheeks the way a masquerade mask might, it dips lower, so it reaches almost to my jawline on each side of my mouth.

I smile beneath it, and still, it doesn’t move significantly.

I rub my hands over the back of my head, but it holds tight.

I touch a few tiny beads around the temples and forehead. I feel ridiculous wearing it, but also kind of beautiful and glamorous.

Can you do this, Leah? Yes or no?

A few seconds later, there’s a knock on the door.

“Just a minute.”

I smear lip gloss on my lips—watermelon, still my favorite—and walk out with my clothes in the little bag, feeling about as self-conscious as I did at my last OB appointment.

“See that door?” Raymond asks me, pointing to a glossy wooden door back over near the kitchen area. “Knock three times and wait for him to let you in. I’ll be leaving for a while, but don’t worry. Mr. Edgar is a gentleman—unless you don’t want him to be.” He winks, and I stand in the living area as he goes out the door.

When it shuts behind him, I stand there for a moment, trembling.

I could knock on the door and pull my mask off. I could face Hansel as me—Leah. But the truth is…I’m scared. I guess that’s what motivates me the most. My fear of what he’d say if I sneaked up on him like this. What if he didn’t want to see me? I couldn’t handle the rejection. Not from Hansel. I’ve searched for him for years with no results, and now he’s right here. I walk over to the door. He’s right on the other side of this, and all I have to do to see him face-to-face is knock and walk in wearing this outfit and this mask. All I have to do to get to see him regularly is knock his socks off in the bedroom.