Go: A Surrender (4 page)

“Jack,” I repeated.

“There; I knew you could do it,” he teased. Then he reached
out a hand, to shake. “And you are?”

“Sylvie,” I said, shaking back.

“It’s a pretty name,” he said. “Are your parents French?”

“No,” I said, “but my mom always wished she was.”

He smiled. “Better now?” I nodded. Then he said, “And
Sylvie, if you didn’t google me after I gave you my full name, I’ll have to
worry that you’re a crazy person with inadequate regard for her personal
safety.”

The tone was light, but he wasn’t kidding. It was an odd
feeling, having been caught in a lie and challenged in the same breath.

“I googled you,” I admitted.

“Thank goodness,” said Jack. “I was sure you would. But it’s
always wise to doublecheck.”

So I’d passed. But I still wanted to dispel the little
remaining chill. “So, are you like a billionaire, or what?”

He laughed. “You don’t have to be a billionaire to drop a
couple grand in a single weekend,” he said, which of course made sense. A
billion was a thousand millions. A million was a thousand thousands. A couple
grand was more than I could afford to burn through on impulse, but suddenly
that little bit of math made him seem a little more like a regular person.

So we ate and talked. Quickly I gleaned that his career
success had been based on smarts and the same brazen self-assurance that had
kicked our interaction off the night before. I knew, occasionally, how to
seem
confident, but I rarely ever was. So his unapologetic self-regard was utterly
foreign. But neither did he seem like a snob: he seemed knowing but also
sympathetic, interesting. Naturally, it was magnetic.

When it was time to leave we stood and walked out instead of
waiting for a check. Jack explained he had a personal account.

Absurd, I thought, just absurd.

At the entrance to the restaurant the hostess brought Jack
his coat and began to help him on with it. Steps behind her was another woman,
carrying a sleek, gorgeous-looking fur. She indicated for me to turn.

“Oh my god,” I said. Jack smiled a tiny smile, not looking
at me. “Jack,” I breathed, and he turned.

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” he said, and he held open the door for us to
walk out.

A moment later we were back in the car. I hadn’t forgotten
we were still playing the game. I wondered where we were going to next—another
swanky hotel, where I’d suck some other stranger’s cock? Some S&M club
where he’d tie me up?

“I know Edmonton is a strange destination,” he said, “but I
had a meeting here this afternoon. And I’m up here a lot, so I know the area
pretty well. The sorts of places one can go.”

Something about his phrasing—sorts of places—made me settle
on the S&M club possibility. I didn’t particularly go in for bondage
scenarios, but he seemed so confident, so capable, I was prepared to play
along.

But we were not driving around the downtown as if toward
some nameless, secret club. We were getting on the freeway, heading away from
the city center and into the night. Perhaps we were going to some secluded,
pseudo-Edwardian estate, I thought. After all, the Queen was on Canada’s money. Why shouldn’t things become even more gilded and fairy-tale tinged?

I was still picturing ladies’ maids and poisoned apples when
we turned off the freeway and onto a dark, gravel road. A few moments later,
the car pulled to a stop. We were beside a signless, ramshackle roadhouse.
Filthy, bare particleboard formed the exterior walls. The only light was from
neon beer signs in the tiny windows. A handful of muddy trucks and junked-out
cars were parked haphazardly in the packed dirt.

The driver came around and opened my door. I climbed out.
The air smelled like tar.

“Oil sands,” said Jack, again hearing my thought.

“Is this a joke?” I said, stopping in my tracks. “We’re not
really going in there, are we?”

“If you’re still playing, we are,” he replied, and looked at
me expectantly. “Are you?”

“I don’t know,” I said. Walking into a rough bar in the
middle of nowhere in an extravagant fur coat somehow scared me more than the
prospect of fucking whatever hulking, tar-covered brute I expected him to
recruit for me once we were inside.

He didn’t say anything, didn’t move, didn’t seem about to
plead for me to change my mind. He simply stood there, and I stood there, and
after a long, silent moment he held out his hand.

I took it, and he gave it a good squeeze and drew me toward
him. I squeezed back, tighter, and he put his arm around me and held me to him,
then turned his head to kiss my temple, then the top of my head.

“I’m here,” he said. “Everything’s safe. Okay? I promise.
Always.”

I nodded tentatively, and he pulled me toward the door.

We stepped into the bar and, just as I’d feared, everyone
stared. But they seemed to recognize Jack, and so after friendly nods they
mostly returned to their drinking. It wasn’t particularly crowded—maybe twelve
or so guys in there, plus the bartender.

I felt a couple men still stealing glances at me, or for all
I knew, at the absurdly expensive coat I was wearing. It had been a generous
gift but from what I knew of Jack there was no way he wasn’t aware of how
grossly ostentatious it would be in a place like this. The only thing I could
conclude was that he’d done it on purpose—that the conspicuousness I now felt
was part of the game.

We approached the bar and I feared he would order champagne.
But instead he handed me a Miller Genuine Draft. “The Champagne of Beers.” I
laughed, and he saw that I’d caught the joke and smirked as he leaned forward
to converse with the bartender. I took a swig of my beer and tried to subtly
survey the men in the room.

I don’t know that it would be fair to say it was a rough
crowd, but it certainly
looked
rough. To a man these guys were sun-baked
and wind-chapped and dirty. I had only the vaguest notion of what “oil sands”
were but I concluded that these men must work out in them. We’d driven easily
an hour to get to this bar, too, so I supposed they must live somewhere out
here, rather than in the city. My guess was that there wasn’t much of a dating
scene. A whore out in these parts must certainly clean up.

The bartender nodded and Jack left me at the bar and next
went to confer with a small group of men sitting at one of the tables. They
kept glancing up at me. It seemed strange I hadn’t been admonished not to watch
this process this time. I felt my heartbeat quickening—but I wasn’t actually
aroused.

However, I
was
already halfway through my beer.

Jack straightened up and the whole table he’d just talked to
got to their feet. But they didn’t come to me—they headed toward the back. Then,
after a minute, one at a time they returned to the main bar, shaking water from
their hands, wiping their faces with paper towels that they then dropped
unceremoniously on the floor.

It dawned on me: he’d asked them to wash up.

He’d said yesterday would be mild, and now my mind was
galloping ahead, frantic. Surely I wouldn’t be expected to fuck them all—or
even to suck them all off. Even as I panicked, I felt the warm, spreading ache
of my body readying itself for sex. Still, I had my limits. Jack had moved to
another table now, but I didn’t care—I marched over to him, tugged at the
sleeve of his shirt.

“Can I talk to you?”

He excused himself and we stepped away from the men. As we
did so, they, too, filed off to the bathroom.

“What’s happening, I don’t want to fuck all these men.” My
voice caught a little as I tried not to cry once again.

“No, no, don’t worry, you won’t.”

“I won’t?”

“No. But will you let them touch you?”

I balked, even as I grew wetter. “All of them?”

He inhaled, looked around. “Yes.”

“I don’t know.”

“Only your breasts. Nobody will touch you anywhere else
unless you say so.”

“Nobody?”

“I promise.”

“But I’ll be—”

“Naked, yes.”

I made a concerted effort not to shake. I felt the delirium
of prolonged, powerful arousal coming on—felt it eroding my thoughts, my
objections. Mechanically I took a sip of my beer.

“You’re turned on, aren’t you?”

I looked around. The men watched me. They were not
attractive. Or maybe they were; I couldn’t tell. I both wanted and did not want
for them to touch me.

“Yes,” I said, finally.

“Good,” he said. “That’s the point of this, after all.”

He began to loosen his tie then, and in a swift motion
slipped it off his neck. “Here,” he said, stepping in to me, and he tied it
across my eyes. I was to be blindfolded.

He took my hand then, and led me a few steps. The music
stopped, as well as any remaining conversation.

He slipped the heavy coat off my shoulders and I heard him
drape it over the back of a chair.

Next I felt his touch between my shoulderblades as he took
hold of the zipper on my dress. I arched my back just a little, savoring the
feeling of him undressing me.

“Arms up,” he said softly, and whisked the dress off over my
head.

He unfastened my bra next. Then my panties—he held my arm as
I stepped out of them, so I wouldn’t lose my balance.

Then he placed his hands firmly on my ribcage and lifted me
up, onto the bar. I squirmed a little—he’d sat me in something wet.

“Hold on,” he said, and a moment later he was leaning me to
one side and drying the bar beneath me, then rubbing the wetness off my
buttock. He set me back right again. The room was still completely, utterly
silent.

Then came Jack’s voice again. “Okay,” he said, “who’s
first?”

A few seconds later, some hot wet mouth clamped onto my
breast, sucking hard—too hard—I cried out.

“Okay, you’re done, next?”

The mouth was gone. Next came a soft, feathery touch—someone
who didn’t want to repeat his companion’s mistake. I moaned a little. He traced
little circles around my nipples and I felt them harden. For a moment I tried
to think who among these men could have such a sweet, soft hand—but then he
covered my nipple with his mouth and that final coherent thought just
disappeared.

“Ohhh,” I groaned, as he lapped his tongue back and forth
across my straining nipple, and I felt myself lifting my hips a little, as if
to urge his mouth downward.

I hadn’t received any instruction.

“Yes,” I said, “I want him,” and to my dismay the mouth was
withdrawn from my breast.

“Tell him what it is you want,” said Jack. “He can only
follow your directions. Here, let me help you.”

I felt Jack and this other man take hold of my legs and lift
them up, so my knees were bent and my feet were on the bar. Jack patted my ass
so I’d scoot forward, spreading my pussy open right at the bar’s edge.

I heard the other men moving now, stepping in for a closer
look. “God damn,” said a male voice, irrepressibly.

Jack spoke to me again. “Tell him,” he repeated.

“I want him to lick my pussy,” I said raggedly.

The sentence was barely out before the man dove upon my
pussy, licking and slurping at it hungrily for a moment before burying his
whole face in me. His nose rubbed back and forth across my clit, but his
two-day stubble was irritating across my tender labia.

“Careful,” I said, and he tried to back off but nuzzling
seemed to be his thing. After a few more moments I had to stop him.

“Stop, please… I’m sorry. You’re hurting me a little.”

“Next,” said Jack.

“Wait,” protested the man from between my legs, “I can try
something different.”

“Not how it works,” Jack informed him. “Next.”

The next man started over again with my breasts, nibbling
lightly at my nipples, then, as I pushed them toward him for more, pulling them
hard into his mouth. But I needed a few moments more to regain my arousal after
the abrasions of the former man’s beard.

“I don’t think so,” I said to whomever was listening.

“Next,” said Jack, and a new man stepped to my breasts. This
one stroked and cupped their curves, then trailed his touch into a gentle
pinch. Then sucked at them, then stroked some more—he had a routine, but kept
changing it up.

“Lick my pussy,” I told him, “But start gentle.”

With the tip of his tongue he traced the sensitive lips of
my pussy, then flicked the smooth base of his tongue across my clit. I moaned
approval.

He next drew my pussy lips gently into his mouth. Then the
same for my clit—a wide, gentle suction. I felt myself growing more engorged,
more sensitive.

To my delight he reached up with both hands and continued to
pinch and stroke my tits. I was moaning loudly now, and one of the men in the
crowd let out a whoop.