Mason's Secret Agreement Pt. 02

"I'm going to come," he mumbles, his hands thrashing in the restrains. He moans and his hips tremble, and then my mouth fills with his semen, his cock spurting faster than I can swallow, his thick warm load dripping down my chin.

I swallow and wipe my mouth. That's when I turn around and see Paris Hightower in the doorway, standing next to that mysterious man in the black robe and white facemask.

***

My first thought is, Paris Hightower is here, thank you God. Maybe I can talk her into doing the cover of the magazine after all. Mason, on the other hand, is totally embarrassed. He's still naked and locked in the stocks on the exam table.

"Dakota," he says, using our safe word. He's blown his nut and the fantasy is over, and reality has rudely intruded upon him.

I take my good old time unbuckling him, letting him get a good taste of life as a submissive. He's agitated and completely flustered now that Paris is here.

"Dakota," he says again. "Dakota, Jaqueline. Come on."

"Alright, hold your horses." He doesn't let me finish unbuckling him. Once his arms are free, he pushes my hands away and starts unhooking the cuffs himself. He finally gets the bar off, and hops down from the exam table onto the floor. He's still naked, his thighs and crotch oily with lubricant.

"Hello?" Paris says. "Are we coming at a bad time?"

Mason starts wiping himself with a towel, hemming and hawing. I'm not sure if he's self-conscious that Paris saw him naked in the stocks, or if he's embarrassed that he had so much fun having his asshole fingered by a naughty nurse during a medical exam roleplay, or if it's some combination of the two, but whatever is it, Mason's not himself. He dresses quickly, putting on his plaid boxers, dress socks, black jeans, leather boots, and gray cable knit sweater.

He walks up to me, clearly annoyed. "When I say Dakota, the session should end. Immediately. That's what a safe word is for."

"I know what a safe word is," I tell him.

We stand there awkwardly.

"Paris!" Mason says finally, going over and giving her a hug and peck on the cheek. He totally ignores the man in the mask, as if he were invisible.

I walk over to Paris to greet her as well. "Hello," I say, and realize there is still lube all over my hands. I half hug her with my elbows, not wanting to get oil on her outfit. She looks incredible, wearing a black leather miniskirt, fishnet stockings and knee-high leather boots. The three-inch heels make her well over six feet tall. She's also wearing a black leather corset and red latex devil horns.

Paris glances me over. "Let me guess? Naughty Nurse Jaqueline?"

"Bingo," I say. "We just got finished doing a dirty medical roleplay."

"I figured we'd try something different," Mason cuts in. "To keep things spicy. So what's your deal? Getting ready for a little dominatrix action? That outfit is... wow. Off the chain."

Paris smiles. "Thank you."

"So I take it you guys want to share this playroom?" Mason continues. "Go for it. Be my guest. Me and Jaqueline were just finishing up anyway."

"Is that your partner?" I ask Paris, motioning to the guy in the robe and mask in the doorway, who hasn't spoken a word. The man notices I'm talking about him and comes closer into the room.

Paris nods. "Yes, that's him. That's Orion. You met him last time we were here."

The man comes over to me and takes my right hand in both of his. My hand's still oily, but he doesn't seem to care. He leans forward and kisses it, and my immediate thought is, I wonder how Mason's ass tastes?

I pull my hand away, a little creeped out. I realize now probably isn't the best time to discuss the magazine with Paris, although I make a mental note to pursue the matter this week at work. If I can schedule a lunch date with Paris, maybe I can convince her to do the cover anyway, despite the advice of her agent, Marco Moretti.

"Well, we were just going," I say to Paris, heading toward the doorway of the playroom. "Come on Mason. Grab the bag with the equipment and sex toys. Let's hit the road and get washed up."

"Wait a minute," a voice says suddenly, "this wasn't part of the deal."

I stop walking and turn around. That voice. I know that voice.

"Let's go," Mason says. "It's getting late."

"Hold on," I say to him. I walk back toward the man in the mask. "Excuse me, but do I know you?"

"I should hope so," he tells me, and takes off the hood and mask. I do a double take, then look at Mason, who just shakes his head. I look to Paris, who's standing there guiltily, biting her bottom lip.

"What's going on here?" I ask, and for some strange reason think of Stefan, Stefan Vonnegut. Did he have something to do with this? I wonder. Is he back in town? But that doesn't make any sense at all, not with Stefan's line of work. Still, why is Marco Moretti here, in the playroom with Mason and I? Why is he here with Paris?

"Listen," Mason says. "I know what this seems like, but--"

"The deal is off," Marco interrupts. "Done. Kaput. I'm clearly making Jaqueline uncomfortable. Paris my darling, if you want to do the cover of Chantel dressed as a dominatrix, in the same clothes you're wearing now, be my guest. But don't expect me to give my blessing. On the contrary. If you do this, you are on your own. You can find new management, and a new agency. I'm not going to stake my reputation on such foolishness."

Marco puts on his hood and storms out of the playroom, Paris chasing after him.

"Deal?" I ask Mason, sick to my stomach. "You made a playroom deal with me and Marco Moretti? Hello? Mason? What the fuck is going on here?"

He doesn't answer me. He just stares at the floor.

***

MASON

Before I can explain anything, Jaqueline's bolting through the club and leaving me behind with the bag of BDSM toys. I go after her, and see that she's caught up with Marco and Paris in the main playroom of Constantine's.

"What deal did you make with Mason?" she's saying to Marco, shouting over the techno music. "Hey! Don't walk away from me!"

"Jaqueline!" I call to her.

Marco stops for a moment, shakes his head. He throws up his arms and continues walking out the front door of the club onto West 26th St., taking off the black robe and replacing it with his trademark fur coat. Paris and Jaqueline follow him, both putting on jackets over their costumes. I go to leave the club as well, and realize I don't have my wallet or keys, that I've left them back in the playroom.

"Fuck," I mumble, and turn around. I hurry back through the club, past men and women in all sorts of roleplaying outfits and in varying stages of dress, and return to our private room. I immediately see my black leather tri-fold wallet and keys sitting on a table in the corner, and breathe a sigh of relief. I do a quick check to make sure all the contents are still inside--my New York driver's license, my three platinum credit cards, and the $700 in cash. When I'm certain everything is in order, I put our bag of sex toys into a rented locker, and hurry back through the club and out the front door to catch-up with the others.

At first I don't see them on the street, and wonder if they've already hopped in a cab and gone. Then, on the corner of West 26th and 7th Avenue, I see Paris--tall and beautiful with red devil's horns on her blond head. Next to her are Marco and Jaqueline, and the two are watching something on Marco's cellphone.

"Yo Guys!" I call to them. They don't hear me. I actually start jogging to catch up with them. Paris sees me and waves. She's standing behind Marco and Jaqueline, looking over their shoulder at the cellphone video Marco is showing them. What in the world is this moron doing? I assume he's filmed us in the playroom, which is one of the biggest no-no's when it comes to BDSM etiquette; you never, under any circumstances, videotape anyone in the club, unless all the parties involved have given explicit consent to do so, usually in the form of a signed waiver or release form. This is not only a matter of confidentiality, but also of common courtesy.

"What in God's name are you watch--" I start to say, when I see the horrified expression on Jaqueline's face and understand exactly what Marco is showing her: the video of my episode from Kerouac's, the cellphone clip where I made the bet with Marco, not only wagering the magazine, but apparently Jaqueline as well.

She stares at me, devastated. Her lips are trembling, and when she blinks, a single teardrop rolls down her cheek. My heart sinks like a piece of lead, and all I want to do is hold her in my arms and explain that things aren't as they seem, that I care about her more than she knows, that she's always on my mind--the way she smells and laughs and tastes and sounds. She has no idea how much I admire her. She has no idea how gutsy I think she is, how impressed I am that a working class girl from Bay Ridge Brooklyn is going into the offices of Chantel and kicking ass and taking names. I've become a secret fan of Jaqueline's, although it isn't in my personality to let this show. Sadly, I've been rooting for her to succeed to the point where it seems as though I've overstepped my bounds, and for this I'm sorry.

"Jaqueline," I say, but she storms away from me.

Marco puts his phone back into his pocket. I'm overcome with a sudden rage, and picture myself grabbing him by his fur coat, picking him up off the ground and throwing him through the plate-glass window of the storefront behind him. I take a deep breath and instead get nose-to-nose with him, pointing my finger in his face.

"I swear to fucking God Marco," I tell him, "you're not going to get away with this."

He's not the slightest bit intimidated. "Is that a threat? Are you threatening me?" He turns to Paris. "Are you watching this? Do you see how this man is acting?" He takes his cellphone out again.

"What?" I say. "More videotapes? Is that how you fight your battles? By extorting people through cellphone footage, instead of using your fists like a man?"

"Violence is for barbarians."

"So says the pussy European." I smile politely at Paris, then turn back to Marco. "This isn't over, asshole. Not by a longshot."

Marco nods. "Oh, I know that. Our bet is still very much on. And you know, I have the funny feeling you're going to be selling me Chantel for exactly one-dollar."

"Never in a million years."

"Well, that's your decision. I wonder how your associates and business partners--the sales executives at your clothing line, the owners association of the Canadian football team you own, and the advertisers who purchase space in your newspapers and magazines--will feel about seeing my video on the Internet? I can't imagine, in light of all the recent sexual harassment allegations, that advertisers would want to associate with a man who bets his own girlfriend on the success of his investments. I mean, betting a woman on quarterly sales numbers is pretty fucked up, don't you think?"

"I was drunk," I say. "We already went over this."

"Wonderful. So now you're not only disrespectful toward women, but you're a drunk, too. I don't think this excuse will score any sympathy points from the public. What do you think, Paris?"

Paris gives me a look that says, I'm so sorry Mason.

"Fuck you," I say to Marco.

"Fuck you, too," he answers.

He walks over to Paris, puts his arm around her, and the two disappear into the Manhattan night.

***

"Get your own cab," Jaqueline tells me, waving down a taxi a few blocks from Constantine's. "I don't want to be around you right now."

"Hold on a second, okay? Time out. Stop running away and let's talk about this."

"There's nothing to talk about."

The cab pulls up to the curb and Jaqueline opens the back door and gets in. I jump in next to her.

"Bay Ridge Brooklyn," she tells the driver. "88th Street and 3rd Avenue."

"What? You're going home now? You're not spending the night with me?"

"No."

The cab driver, a Jamaican man with dreadlocks and a knitted Rastafarian cap, punches the information into the meter. He steps on the gas and the car accelerates loudly, the V6 pick-up jerking our heads back into the gray leather seat. Then he's jamming on the brakes, sending us forward into the Plexiglas divider. He lays on his horn, screaming at the SUV in front of him that stopped short.

"Hey!" he shouts. "Move it!"

I glance at the cabbie's license which is mounted on the back of his seat. His name is Delbert Gayle.

"Sorry about that," Delbert says with a thick Island accent, turning around and talking to us through the opening in the divider.

Jaqueline's not listening. Her eyes are glued to her cellphone which she's holding on her lap. I put my arm on her shoulder and she pulls away.

"Jacks," I say.

"That's not my name."

"Fine. Jaqueline. Come on, don't be like that."

She ignores me. She's really pissed, and I have to admit, I'm a little concerned. That video of me wagering her was pretty insensitive, and even though I didn't see most of it, I can only imagine how it made Jaqueline feel--like a total piece of shit. Like an object that can be used and thrown away when you're done having fun with it. It was also stupid of me to go behind Jaqueline's back and try to make a deal with Paris to do the cover, even though I honestly had her best interests at heart. I have to learn to back off some, to accept the fact that I'm not always going to be in control of every situation.

Jaqueline puts in her ear-buds and starts listening to music on her cellphone. She turns it up so loud that even I can hear it, some modern rock song I don't recognize. She closes her eyes and leans back into the leather seat and appears to fall asleep, although I know for a fact that she couldn't sleep now if her life depended on it. I stare at her, hoping her anger will fade and she'll open her eyes and smile and things will be normal again, but I know this isn't going to happen. I watch her sitting there, her sexy legs crossed under her black leather jacket, her hands folded in her lap, her long brown hair pulled back in a scrunchy behind her head. She's left a few strands of hair hanging by her ears, so delicate against the strong outline of her jaw. I want to kiss her, lean over and kiss her soft lips, like I've done so many times before.

But I can't. Not now.

We ride in silence for 40 minutes, down FDR Drive through the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel. When we get to Ridge Boulevard, Jaqueline finally opens her eyes; she'd actually dozed-off for a few minutes.

"Where are we?" she says, turning off her music.

"Two minutes from your house."

She squints and wipes her mouth. She takes out her ear-buds, zips them inside the pocket of her jacket. "What are you doing?" she says to me. "Why are you still here? You're not coming in my house."

"I'm not?"

"No way."

I nod. "That's fine."

The cab pulls over at the curb and stops. "88th and 3rd," the driver says.

I go to pay the cab fare but Jaqueline grabs my arm. "No," she says. "I got it." She hands the driver some cash and tells him to keep the change.

We both get out and the cab drives away.

"I don't know what you think you're doing," she tells me, zipping up her jacket, "but you're totally not coming in my house."

I nod. "I know, I understand."

"Then what the fuck are you doing here?"

"Hoping you'll at least talk to me for a second. Let me try to explain what happened tonight. It's not what you think."

Jaqueline doesn't say anything. She keeps walking toward her apartment.

"Listen, I know what it looks like with that video, the one Marco showed you. It's pretty fucked up."

"It's totally fucked up," she says.

"I know it is. But that was from a while ago, before I really got to know you. Plus, I was drunk and just fucking around. I didn't really mean what I said. I would never wager you, like some piece of meat, believe me. I actually care about you, Jaqueline, whether you realize that or not. That's why I wanted so bad for Paris to do the cover, because I want you to succeed."

Jaqueline rolls her eyes. "You want me to succeed because you have a bet with Marco, I'm not fucking stupid. You want the magazine to gain readership so you can save face and protect your ego. That's why you were so concerned about raising revenue 10 percent that night at your house, when we toasted ice wine and first had sex. Because of your bet with Marco."

"No," I tell her. "That's not the whole truth. Sure, I made a stupid bet with Marco, who is the biggest fucking asshole I think I've ever met. But that was then, not now. Now is different."

"How is it different?"

"Because I care about you now, Jaqueline. That's how. I want to see you become a successful editor, and turn the magazine around. And I have faith that you can do it. I believe in you."

Jaqueline laughs. "Please. You don't have faith in me. If you did, you wouldn't have gone behind my back and tried to set up some deal with Paris and Marco... a deal which I still don't understand... and use it to get Paris on the cover. If you trust me, if you have faith in me like you say you do, you would have let me do that on my own."

"You make a good point. I'm sorry. I guess I fucked up."

Jaqueline walks to her front door, fishes in her purse for her keys. "You know something Mason, I'm going to be honest with you."

"Okay?"

"This whole thing with us, it isn't working out. I didn't realize it at first, not until that night when you brought up Stefan, which got me thinking. I know you don't know a whole lot about him, but he was a real jerk, I can tell you that. He was selfish, and abusive, and one night, right at the very end of our relationship, he brought up the idea of selling me to his fucking friends, because he owed them money. Fucking selling me."

"Come on, Jaqueline," I say, taking a step toward her and trying to put my hand on her shoulder, "I'd never do that. I'd never try to sell you--"

She pulls back from me. "Get off me, Mason. Leave me alone."

I stand there awkwardly.

She shakes her head and sighs. "You know, there was a moment not too long ago when I was really excited about us, when I thought you might be, well..."

"When I might be what?"

"I don't know," she says, fidgeting with her keys. "That you might be someone special. But I was wrong. It all came clear tonight, our whole relationship: I'm your fucking slave, some chick you made sign a contract to fulfill your fantasies. You don't trust me, and feel the need to pull strings behind my back with the magazine, which totally pisses me off. And now I find out about some bet with Marco, which makes me look like an even bigger asshole. What if that jackass puts that video online? What's going to happen to my reputation?"

I don't know what to say. A big part of what she's saying is true. Still, there's something she's missing, and that's the fact that I do trust her, and do care about her, and want her to blossom into the great editor I know she can be.

"I don't care if you fire me," Jaqueline says, "that's fine. I can probably get my old job back with Cashmere & Silk."

"Hey, come on now, I'm not going to fire you."

"Well you can if you want," she says. "Because I'm done with all the club scene bullshit. It's not fun for me anymore, I have too many bad memories, too much baggage."

I go to touch her and she jerks back.

"Jesus Jaqueline. Are you okay?"

"No. I'm a fucking wreck."

"Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?"

"Yes," she says. "You can go away and leave me alone. I don't want to see you anymore. The deal's off."

"Listen, I know you may have had a difficult past, but I'm not that Stefan guy, really. I'm not--"

"Please," she says, "just go away. Please."

"Fine," I say, and understand for the first time the finality of what she's saying. She's breaking up with me.