Purely Professional (4 page)

All the air seemed to have suddenly gone out of the room. Then Max sat back, and the spell was broken. “So no, I haven’t had that kind of relationship yet.”

“How did you first know you were into this?”

“I’ve had these kinds of fantasies as long as I can remember. I didn’t understand at first. It wasn’t until later that I understood there wasn’t anything wrong with me, it was just a different kind of kink. There’s a lot of kink out there” He finished his coffee. “Anyway, after college I dated this woman, Vanessa. She recognized my dominance right away because she’s a natural submissive.” He shook his head, seeming to stare far away in the past. “We had some amazing sex, Vanessa and I. She taught me a lot about dominating a woman who wants to submit. Through her, I got introduced to a community I didn’t even know existed, a community of people just like me. Most were nice, fun people, and I’m still in touch with a few of them, over fifteen years later.”

“And what about Vanessa?”

“It didn’t work out.” He shrugged. “She was a lot older. We weren’t in the same life place at all. She wanted to have a family, but she was also polyamorous and wanted to sleep with other people. I didn’t want that. I still don’t want that. Eventually we split up. It was amiable, and I still see her at munches and things.”

“Munches?”

“Munches are gatherings for people in the community. Nonsexual. People just go to meet up and discuss things.”

“Ah. So with Vanessa…she was so much older…”

“It wasn’t abusive, if that’s what you’re implying.” His expression turned severe. “God, why does everybody think Dominants are some twisted abuse victims?”

“Sorry.” Bridget felt taken aback by his sudden change in demeanor. “Apparently I touched a nerve.”

Some of the tension left his shoulders. “Yes. You see…” He trailed off, then shook his head, deciding not to continue, leaving her curious. “Never mind. Anyway, we were both consenting adults. Also, most of the people involved were
not
sexually abused. It’s a common misconception that I don’t want to see perpetuated any more.” When she continued to nod, he relaxed a little more. “Sorry, but it’s something I hate. People outside the community thinking that a tendency toward submission or dominance means that person must have been abused. It’s kind of frustrating to fight against that.”

“So this may seem like a dumb question,” Bridget began, wanting to understand without pressuring him, “but what differentiates dominance and submission from abuse?”

“BDSM relationships are safe, sane and consensual. That’s a phrase you’ll hear a lot. Both partners must be consenting adults, and there’s consent in every action.”

“So that’s why you use safe words.” She paused. “Why not just say what you mean? Why use a code?”

“It’s often a turn-on to protest.” Max smiled. “Submissives want to
feel
like they’re being overpowered, that they’re helpless to stop the action, so they want to be able to say ‘no, no, stop,’ and have their partner not stop. It’s sometimes called ‘consensual nonconsent,’ or the inflammatorily named ‘rape fantasy.’” He grimaced, the smile gone. “I hate that term. Anyway, with a safe word, the submissive can stop the scene when it really is too much. Occasionally you have more extreme scenarios without safe words, where both partners are so in tune with each other that they don’t use them, but I’ve never had that, nor wanted it.” He examined the back of his hands. “I want to push my partner as far as she wants to go, but I don’t want to ever push her further. Does that make sense?”

“Yes, that makes sense,” she finished. “So, I want to ask you a personal question.”

“What has the rest of this interview been?” Max asked, and Bridget had to smile.

“Well, it’s just that you’re a college professor. Isn’t this…‘deviant’ sexual behavior a danger to your job?”

He looked her in the eyes. “Do you share all the details of your sex life with everyone at work?”

She shuddered. “God, no.” She didn’t want to share that it had been over a year since she’d had sex with a man instead of with the toys in her drawer, at least. “But what if they find out?”

Max sat back, considering his answer. “It’s not like I haven’t worried about it, but there’s only so much you can do. And as a college professor, I have a little leeway if something got out. My students are all legal adults. I safeguard my privacy as best as I can, and when I publish work related to the lifestyle, I use a pseudonym.”

“Really?” Bridget felt at once surprised and intrigued. “I didn’t know you wrote anything other than literary analysis.”

He smiled. “It seems there’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

“Will you tell me the pseudonym?”

He raised his eyebrows with a smirk. “You want to go look up all my articles?”

Typical. “So I can use it in the article instead of your name, jackass.”

Max’s smile widened at her teasing insult. “I go by Erebos.”

“God of darkness and shadow,” Bridget supplied immediately.

“I’m impressed.” Max raised his eyebrows. “You know your Greek mythology.”

“I minored in Classical Antiquity. You know, a practical fallback in case my journalism career didn’t work out.”

He laughed. “I think I’ve given you enough to go on, right? At least for now?”

“Yes, I think so.” Bridget stopped the recorder and packed it away. When there was nothing but the table between them, she picked up her Frappuccino and finished it, then pulled the straw out and curled her tongue around it to draw the last bits of whipped cream into her mouth. She did it without thinking, and it wasn’t until she saw him lick his lips that she even realized what she was doing. She closed her mouth and set the cup down, flustered by the look in his eyes when they met hers. Rather than look embarrassed or apologetic, or even aware that his stare was more intimate than publicly appropriate, he just looked—she couldn’t quite describe it. Mischievous? Content? No. He looked
seductive
.

“It’s been a pleasure,” Max said at last. “If you want to know more, you can always just come knocking. You know where I live.”

“All right.” She stood on quivering knees and took her empty cup. Was she supposed to shake his hand or something? “Thanks,” she said lamely, then turned and walked as casually as possible out the door.

It wasn’t until she was back in the car and let out a deep breath that she realized she was completely exhausted and trembling. And what was that last line? If she wanted to know more, she should come knocking? Go to his
house
to learn more about BDSM? Was that a come-on, or was she reading into it too much? This was a man who had sex with—or at least “played with”—many different women, who was probably a little oversexualized anyway. It might not mean anything at all. And yet, the way he
looked
at her…

It was at least a few minutes before she felt steady enough to drive. Her whole body felt hot. When she got home, she sat in front of the recorder and replayed the interview to take notes.

Although the interview was full of good information, she kept getting distracted by his voice. Several times, she had to go back and relisten to a section. When she finally finished, she started to write immediately while the experience was still fresh in her mind. “A Conversation With Erebos,” she titled it, liking the sound of the mythological name. What did the women he dominated call him? Maybe Max…or Erebos…or Master.

A thrill ran through her at the thought. What would it be like, that smoky voice in her ear, asking her to call him “Master”? She wrapped her lips around the word, imagining saying it as he licked his way down her neck, teasing her, making her ask for more…

Fuck, she was never going to get through this article in one piece. With some difficulty, she shrugged off the thought and continued typing.

She included some of Max’s more choice phrases word for word.
It’s not about just dominating.
It’s about dominating someone who loves to submit.
To know that I’m making her most erotic
,
wildest fantasies come true
,
that’s what turns me on.
I
want to know that when she comes
,
I’m raising her to heights she’s never experienced before.

Her fingers hovered over the keys, pausing as she considered that. What would it be like? She had some fantasies, but when it all came down to it, would she be the type of woman to enjoy giving up control? Helen would call her a control freak. How could someone like her enjoy that kind of helplessness?

Regardless of what she thought, she couldn’t deny that right then, sitting in that desk chair, she was turned on. She ignored the sensation.

A few hours later, article complete, she sat back in her chair and relaxed. Now all she needed was a pseudonym. After a little deliberation, she settled on “Nyx,” the goddess of night, Erebos’s consort. As she typed it, though, she hesitated. Was it crossing some kind of line to name herself as his consort? Maybe, but then again, maybe it would imply additional intimacy. It could give her more credibility, and credibility was something she desperately needed in this area.

After thinking about Max for so long, credibility wasn’t the only thing she desperately needed. She finalized the article and sent it along to Marcy, then climbed the stairs to her bedroom. In one day, she’d broached a level of intimacy that she hadn’t been ready to share; she’d been content to give Max a starring role in her masturbatory fantasies, but she hadn’t expected anything more. This was a higher degree of “complicated.”

Bridget began to undress, thinking of their conversation, imagining Max as a Dominant instead of just her flirtatious next-door neighbor. She left her jeans in a heap on the floor, then her shirt, lost in thought, tossing her bra aside, then her panties. The image came to her as she sat down on the bed: Max in a dark button-down shirt, necktie loosened, shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow, his blue eyes dark and brooding. He pushed her back on the bed and knelt over her, using one hand to hold hers down above her head as he unfastened his trousers. His stare locked on her with that same intensity she’d seen earlier in the day.

She lay back, closing her eyes. Even before she reached down to touch herself, she knew this wouldn’t take long. She’d been wet since their conversation at Starbucks.

What would a Dominant do, exactly? Maybe he would pin her beneath him as he thrust into her. He would keep his clothes on and she would be naked. She rubbed her clit harder, and when it wasn’t enough, thrust two fingers of her other hand deep inside. If only that were him. What would he look like when he came? Would he keep his eyes open, that piercing blue gaze staring down into hers, or would they fall closed? Would he be silent, or would he moan her name? Her fingers pressed upward, hitting that perfect spot inside her, and she tumbled over the precipice with a wordless cry.

When she returned to herself, she just lay there for a moment, panting, breathless. She never came that hard. Bridget sat up groggily and just exhaled, savoring that afterglow, her body tingly in the warm sunlight streaming through the window.

Shit, she’d left the blinds open.

She jerked them closed, heart beating fast. How had she not noticed? She pulled one corner aside to look across the yard to Max’s side windows. The afternoon sun reflected only a white glare back at her. It had only been a few minutes, but what if she had been seen? Even so, she felt a strange rush of arousal.

Maybe she was more perverted than she’d thought.

Chapter Four

“We’ve been testing some new things this week.” Marcy stood in front of the projector, surveying each of the members of her staff with a critical, professional eye, lingering on Bridget just a moment longer than was comfortable. Marcy dominated these staff meetings. She’d already blown through most of the agenda in the first half hour, and her expression of barely contained satisfaction showed that she’d been saving the best for last. “We’ve been trying out various articles, and the test readers confirmed what we’ve suspected, that they want edgier pieces.”

Bridget wasn’t sure how to feel. Was this a good thing for her career? Would Marcy be happy with her work now, or would she want more?

“This chart—” she pointed to the image projected on the screen, “—reveals the articles that received the most positive response. You can see here that over fifty percent of our test market audience, females aged twenty to thirty-five, chose ‘A Conversation With Erebos’ as their favorite piece in the last section, and almost ten percent rated it the most interesting article we’d ever published.”

Marcy turned away from the screen and continued. “With these results, we’ve decided to do more than include some edgier work in our main magazine. We’re also planning to expand the
Sultry
brand.”

The next slide was a screenshot of a web page Bridget had never seen. The page was titled with “Sultry Submissions” in a black curlicue font that resembled the magazine’s logo. The page was bare except for a few placeholders, and Bridget felt a vague sense of apprehension.

Marcy seemed to swell with pride. “I’d like to introduce you to
Sultry Submissions
, our new kink-friendly offshoot. This site will let us expand our brand in the rapidly growing digital-first market. Not only will we have our main magazine, now with more boundary-pushing articles, but we’ll have
Sultry Submissions.
We can deliver content more frequently online than in a monthly magazine, allowing deeper reader involvement and more advertising revenue.”

Marcy paused to scroll through the home page, showing the layout. “We’re focusing on BDSM for now, with the potential to expand into other kink subgenres over time. Right now, we’re in the process of hiring a team of freelance writers to generate content, and if any of you are interested, you’re of course welcome to put in for positions on the team.” She smiled.

The room tittered with some murmuring and a bit of nervous laughter, which Bridget echoed, her anxiety easing. She’d led the BDSM initiative, and now Marcy was getting freelancers to finish the job. She was going to come out of this looking great.

Marcy picked up her copy of the packet she’d distributed to each of them at the start of the meeting. “Now, if you’ll take a look at those reports I handed out, they have the breakdown of our test readership by article, percentage of interest and category. Study those documents and figure out how they apply to your department. This next issue is going to be edgier, so start thinking about what that means to you. I want to see some ideas in my email by the end of the week.”

The meeting dragged on while people asked questions, but Bridget just sat there, awash in relief, waiting to be dismissed. She had a dozen items on her pre-lunch to-do list.

“Bridget, I want to see you in my office after this.” Marcy’s voice was not unkind, but Bridget still felt a sense of foreboding. This was probably just a formality, right? Thanks for a job well done?

* * *

“You saw the numbers.” Marcy leaned forward in her office chair a few minutes later, her hawklike gaze unsettling. “Your article was a big hit.”

“Thank you. Those are some impressive figures.” Bridget perched on the edge of her own chair, unable to stop feeling vaguely like prey.

Marcy relaxed a bit. “Listen, I understand why you took that particular approach for your piece. It was a little distant, a little clinical, and that’s all right. But I want something more.”

“More?” That wave of anxiety was back.

“I’ve been talking to Juanita Diaz.”

Bridget felt a little thrill run through her at the name. “The CEO of
Sultry
?” Known for her bold business decisions and uncanny success in a cutthroat industry, Juanita had been Bridget’s idol since she first began reading
Sultry
as a teenager. Although she’d met Juanita several times, she never got over feeling awed in the CEO’s presence.

Marcy nodded. “We’re in agreement on this. While we’re hiring freelancers to provide much of the content, we want to feature your work as a main draw of the site. We’re looking for something personal, something more than just the research and how-to articles of the rest of the site. Specifically, we want you to keep a blog.” Marcy smiled as if she were granting a boon.

“Whoa.” A wave of dizziness swept over Bridget. She was standing before she knew it, unable to restrain herself. “I’m sorry, but I’m not going to blog about my personal sex life. That’s just…that’s crossing a line here, Marcy.” The blood thundered in her head, anger and embarrassment commingling.

“You can use Nyx, the pseudonym you used for your Erebos piece.” Marcy’s voice was matter-of-fact, calm. “None of it would be linked back to you.”

“Why do you need me?” Bridget was still standing. “Can’t you just get an erotica writer? If that’s what you want, they’re a dime a dozen on the Internet. I don’t…I don’t do that. I thought that’s why you were hiring freelancers.”

“We’re hiring freelancers for the informational articles, not for sex stories. We don’t want content from someone’s complete imagination. We want chronicles based in fact, based in someone’s actual experiences, written by someone whom we trust. We’ll have plenty of information articles, but the whole site can’t just be how-to. The readers need a little titillation, couched in fact. We already know you can write, and since you have connections with this community, it’s a perfect fit.”

There it was. She’d presented herself as a practicing member of the BDSM community when she’d never even blindfolded a partner for sex, and now that lie had caught up to her, as she probably should have known it would. The right thing to do would be to confess, to admit she was a fraud. She could even claim a misunderstanding, say that she had friends in the community who’d helped her with the article. She’d probably keep her job, maybe even escape repercussions.

Before she could say anything, Marcy pressed on. “There’s a bit of a raise, and it could lead to bigger things. If
Sultry Submissions
becomes popular, we’ll need a managing editor. I know you were looking for a promotion from Tyesha before she left.”

Bridget sank back into her seat. In that moment, she knew she’d traded her integrity for the possibility of a promotion. Unless there was still a risk-free way out. Something to make her seem noble?

An idea occurred to her. “I’d hate to shirk my other responsibilities. I’d feel guilty if others had to pick up my slack.”

Marcy gave her a withering look. “It’s two blog posts a week, Bridget. I hardly think that qualifies as onerous.”

Well, that didn’t work. It had been worth a try.

“What about my anonymity here at the magazine? If I’m writing about my personal sex life, a pseudonym will be useless if everyone knows it’s me.”

Marcy shook her head. “No one will know, not even here at
Sultry
. You can work on your blog from home and submit it directly to the site. If it makes you feel better, Juanita and I will sign a nondisclosure agreement.”

Bridget closed her eyes for a moment, gathering her thoughts. “What types of things do you want me to write, exactly?”

Marcy sat back, her shoulders relaxing, seeming to know she had won. “We’d like the blog to be about a relationship. Not just sex acts, but the day-to-day workings of a BDSM couple. Your day-to-day experiences with Erebos. I assume he’s your partner?”

Bridget found herself nodding. Why was she nodding? When had her brain turned to gelatin? She ran through possible ways that she might hide her inexperience, how she might get away with this. “So…maybe I should write about the beginning? The way things were when we first…I mean, the way things were at first?”

“That would be an ideal approach. Start at the beginning. Your readers can feel like they’re taking this journey with you.”

Bridget looked at Marcy. This must be karma playing the world’s cruelest joke on her. In a past life, she must have drowned puppies for fun, and this was karmic retribution. She exhaled through her nose. If she was going to back out, this was the moment.

“All right. I guess I’ll do it.”

“Excellent.” Marcy smiled in her thin-lipped way. “I’ll have our lawyer draw up the paperwork for your new contract and the NDR, and I’ll let Juanita know you’re on board.”

* * *

That evening, she texted Helen for Max’s number, making some excuse about follow-up questions. Helen replied without pressing further, maybe a bit apprehensive since Bridget had spent half of the previous week’s Netflix-and-takeout night chewing her out for not explaining that it was
Max
she was meeting at Starbucks. They’d reached a truce, though, and Helen had given up Max’s number, so Bridget had no reason to still be staring at the little black phone an hour and two glasses of wine later. God, she hated phone calls, and this one was not going to be easy.

Finally, unable to stand it any longer, she picked up the phone and dialed. It rang once, twice. She might not be able to speak over the lump in her throat. Finally the phone clicked, and she heard his familiar voice on the other end.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Max,” she said after a strangled pause. He could probably hear her heart beating through the phone. “It’s Bridget.”

“Bridget.” He sounded pleased. “What brings you to this incredibly formal and unnecessary method of communication?”

“I need to talk to you. To ask you something. Can I…come over? I mean, do you have company right now?”

“No, I’m alone.” Even though she didn’t think he’d said it any particular way, she still heard undertones of
something
in his voice. “Come on over.”

“Okay.” She hung up before Max could say anything else.