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The hallway ended at a small living room decorated with lots of white wicker furniture
and a big-screen television playing porn. People in various states of undress sat around,
probably recuperating from or gearing up for heights of sexual excess. The doorkeeper
in the velvet cape was there, sitting on a bar stool, watching the television. “Excuse
me,” Marla said.
The woman looked up and smiled. She was pretty, dark-eyed with full lips and a dark
cast to her skin. “Mmm,” the woman said. “I wouldn’t mind licking your boots. But I’m
working tonight—just taking a little break to rest my feet.” She wiggled her ankle, and
Marla glanced down to see spike heels, the clasps held closed with little golden
padlocks. “Finch likes to keep me on my toes.”
“You’re, uh, close to Finch?” Marla asked. Her admirer was hovering impatiently
behind her, but she chose to ignore him.
“Oh, he doesn’t fuck me,” she said, laughing. “Though he’s told me my ass is as pretty
as a boy’s, which I take as a compliment. He’s been helping to train me as a
submissive.”
“You seem pretty bold for a sub in training,” Marla said.
The woman grinned and shrugged. “Like I said, I’m taking a break.”
“Is Finch around?” Marla said. “I need to talk to him.”
The woman looked at her again, more speculatively. “You don’t strike me as someone
who wants sub training, and you look like you know how to be a dom already.”
Marla found herself strangely flattered. It was always nice to hear that she radiated
confidence.
“No, that’s not what I need to talk to him about,” Marla said. “We have some mutual
friends. I just want to chat with him.”
“He’ll be down later, probably,” she said, shrugging. “Just have fun in the meantime,
grab something to eat.” She nodded to Jared. “You should probably beat your boy,
too—he looks like he’s about to wiggle out of his skin.”
“He’s not my boy,” Marla muttered, drawing her cloak around her and stepping into the
kitchen, which adjoined the living room. There was juice and bottled water on the
counter, and a buffet of sorts laid out on a sideboard, with asparagus, bowls of M&M’s,
hummus, pita bread, artichoke dip—all finger food. Jared was still following her, and in
the kitchen, Marla turned on him. “Look, aren’t there rules about unwelcome
advances?”
He looked wounded. “You said you wanted to see me whipped. There are rules about
messing with someone’s head, too, you know.”
“I meant you deserve to be whipped, you annoying little shit,” Marla said.