Leather Bound (7 page)

Most of the smart businesses play up the theme, giving themselves double-entendre names, like ours. And it works. It’s safely naughty. So if you want to bring your best friend somewhere for her bachelorette party, you’ll probably head here. Maybe stop by Cream for a cup of coffee, then head to Lashes & Lace for toys, then on to Cock’s Tail or one of the other half-dozen nightclubs that offer a naughty ambiance.

I asked around before we opened Leather Bound here, but no one seemed to know why this area is here, or where it came from.

It’s a good place for Leather Bound. Although we’re not specifically focused on sex books, we definitely do our fair share of sales in that direction. Plus, the rent is cheaper than anywhere else, we get more walk-in sales and it’s easy to get to almost anywhere from the store.

Like to Lashes & Lace, which was just around the corner a couple of blocks and down the street. I practically ran there. Now that I had a mission, I had someplace to put all my nervous energy.

I slipped in the front door, the little bells tinkling to mark my entrance. As far as sex toy shops go, Lashes & Lace is high-end, deluxe and very, very lush. The walls are painted in a lovely crimson, and the lights are kept soft and dim. There’s more a sense that you’re walking into someone’s home. If that someone owned a couple hundred sex toys and had a fetish for leather paddles as wall art.

A woman I didn’t know was behind the front counter, her ample curves tucked into a leather corset dress.

Perfect. Anonymity was the key thing I was craving at the moment, and that made things so much easier. And sweeter.

Walking past her, I caught her eye and gave an ‘I’m heading to the back’ gesture with my hand. She nodded. Sometimes I loved wordless exchanges.

A wide black curtain hung at the back of the store, and I parted it to step through. Here, it was even more dimly lit, soft cream walls and flickering electric lights that guided you down a long hallway. Doors opened off either side. I wasn’t surprised to find many of the doors marked FILLED, even in the middle of the day. L&L was known for catering to couples and tourists who wanted a clean, safe place to act out their fantasies.

I slipped down the hall until I found a door that read EMPTY. I swiped my credit card and, when the door clicked open, I stepped inside.

The room was small but cosy. Three walls were covered with long roll-up shades. I knew from experience what lay behind the fabric: floor-to-ceiling windows. On either side, the windows were two-way. If you opened those, whoever was in the room on the sides could see you. Along the wall opposite the door was a one-way window. You could watch the action, but they couldn’t see you.

I know a lot of exhibitionists, those people who get off on fucking in front of people, and I’m thankful for them because I like to watch, but I’m not one myself. The thought of being in front of people, of having sex in front of someone else, makes me feel breathless and weak, as though my legs won’t hold me.

At a basic level, I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to let myself go and enjoy it, knowing that someone was watching. It’s more than that, though. I just don’t know exactly what. Maybe it’s the introvert thing. Or a trust thing. Trusting them, trusting myself.

But to sit in a dark corner and watch someone else get off? Yes, please. When I was little I wanted to be Harriet the Spy or Nancy Drew, looking through people’s things for clues, watching through keyholes, discovering the forbidden. That desire has changed over the years, it’s grown up from secrets and clues to sex and lust, but it’s never gone away.

I pushed the button on the wall facing me. As the shade began to slowly rise, I settled into the chair that smelled slightly of antiseptic, anticipating the view.

L&L doesn’t advertise what shows are coming up or send out event listings, so you never know what you’re going to get. Sometimes it’s a couple, clearly into exhibitionism, loving every second of being watched. Sometimes it’s famous porn stars, working a whole room full of bodies, orgy-style. Once Kyle came with me and we watched a threesome, two laughing, giggling women lovingly suck off a man on his knees. It was fun to watch, and we’d fucked on that fantasy for days, but at that time I’d realised something about my voyeuristic tendencies: I like it best alone.

Last time I was here, there was a gorgeous man lying on his back, bound in cream-coloured ropes that contrasted with his ebony skin, his cock beautiful and erect. No one came in or out of the room while he was there, and he never moved or opened his eyes. He was like a statue, a bound, breathing man of stone, only his cock twitching, tiny movements that were almost impossible to see. It was one of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen.

This time when the shade slipped up, giving a small clunk as it hit the top, I sucked in my breath at the view. In the larger room, silhouetted by a single lamp that showed off her body but hid her face in the shadows, a woman sat in a small folding chair. Her long brunette hair fell about her shoulders in waves, and her hands were held, possibly bound, behind the back of the chair.

A tiny tattoo – the small shape of something dark that I couldn’t make out from where I sat – rested in the hollow of her throat. She wore a black button-down shirtdress that hugged every curve. It was open from her upper thighs down, showing off a pair of old-fashioned garter clips attached to seamless black stockings. Her chin was lowered, but her green eyes were raised, her gaze apparently resting on the man who stood off to her side.

He was mostly outside the halo of the light, but I could see he was fully dressed in an impeccably pressed pinstriped suit, the cut accentuating his wide shoulders. It was all very 1950s, right down to the hat he wore. The space he took up was larger than his actual body, a presence that was incredibly sexy even through the window between us.

He held a pair of long-handled scissors – the only shiny thing in the room – his hands already settled into the large black handles. As he brought the scissors closer to her, I realised that the reason her dress was open at the bottom was because he’d cut the buttons off; they lay littered about her feet on the floor. This time, he started from the top, aiming for the button that held the dress closed over the curve of her breasts.

My hand was already under my skirt, toying with the edges of my panties as I watched them. The suspense of his slow movements, her breath rising and falling as he opened the scissors over the button thread and held them there without closing them all the way, was making me feel breathless and on edge.

Slowly, slowly, he closed the scissors all the way, a sound I could hear in my head, the small snick of steel meeting steel. With a delay that seemed to take for ever, the button fell away, rolling and tumbling down the fabric and against her stockinged thigh to finally land on the floor.

Her dress had bloomed open, showing the paleness of her skin beneath the black, an alabaster hollow that was flanked by two beautiful curves. Her chest heaved softly as he guided the scissors to the next button, the movement arching her back just slightly so I could see her nipples peaked against the fabric.

The sight made me bring my free hand to my own chest, fingers slipping under my bra, tweaking one nipple softly. I tugged my panties to one side and slipped one finger along my cleft, stroking myself softly with my fingertip. My clothes were suddenly too restrictive, too cumbersome. I wished I’d taken everything off before I’d slipped the shade up. I wanted full access to myself, to pinch and tug as I pleased. The room smelled of my arousal, sweet and urgent, and I wondered what she smelled like, in that other room.

On the other side of the window, he brought the scissors to the next button, and he must have said something to her, because she looked up suddenly and shuddered, her legs pulling together just slightly. The button was quick to fall, letting the fabric slip away further.

Carefully, he tucked the closed scissor blades between her thighs, waiting until she brought her legs fully together before he let go. The scissors stayed there, upright, their sharp point buried between her thighs.

He ran his fingers over the points of her nipples, sending visible shudders through her with every contact. I sensed that this was a game of power, of how much pleasure he could give her before she opened her legs in want and pleasure, before those scissors went tumbling to the floor.

I closed my own legs, mimicking her, keeping one hand between them. The pressure angled my fingers into a new place and I moaned softly at the unexpected pleasure.

Bending down, he put one hand on each side of her dress, where the fabric had fallen open. In one easy movement, he pulled outwards. Under the strain, the buttons didn’t stand a chance. They went flying, tumbling to the floor, and the dress opened fully to reveal all of her, from her large, pointed nipples down to her lovely V of dark curls. The garter belt fitted the swell of her hips perfectly. I couldn’t take my eyes off the pale strips of her thigh that showed above the stockings, the way the nylon rolled just slightly as if at some point she had begun to roll them off and had been distracted. The scissors between her thighs were the only hard-edged thing about her.

His fingers played along both nipples, causing her to squirm and arch in her seat. My movements echoed hers, as though, by watching, I was gaining a synthesis with her. He held one nipple tightly between his fingers, almost pinching it, and then tugged it, elongated it until it was thin and tight. I could almost hear her gasp, the way her mouth fell open at the sensation. He did the same with the other until he was tugging both nipples as far away from her body as they could possible stretch. The muscles of her thighs clenched, shifting the scissors. He kept his stance until she was panting, uttering words I couldn’t hear.

I feared for a second that she would lose control and drop the scissors. I didn’t know what that meant for her, but I knew it wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted to be very, very good for him. And at that moment, with my own hand clenched between my thighs, my clit pulsing hard and fast against the movement of my finger, I wanted her to be very, very good for him too. I wanted her to get her reward, whatever it might be, so that I could have it too.

He released her nipples, and they sprang back against her body, flushed and rosy. He touched each one again, a tender touch, a finger-kiss, to soothe the ache. Then he pulled the scissors from between her thighs. She shuddered again and let her legs fall open.

I was close to coming, but I didn’t want to, not yet, so I stilled my hand for a moment, watching. He slipped the scissors between her skin and one of the stockings, slicing down the front in irregular patterns. Then he did the other. The torn-open dress and the gashes in the material combined to make her look like she’d spent the night being well fucked, even though I got the feeling that the couple had just begun playing shortly before I arrived. The look was sexy on her, and when he let the scissors drop to the floor so he could catch her hair with one hand and pinch her clit with the other, I felt the first pulse of pre-climax slip through my body.

He stroked her, hard and quick, with two fingers, and I caught his rhythm, echoed it with my own, until an orgasm rose inside me, impossible to resist. I let the pleasure pull my eyes closed, let it pull forward the loud moans that rose from somewhere in my chest and sank into the walls. There was a calm in allowing the orgasm to wash over me like that, in allowing all of the stress of the day to slide away. The pleasure was lovely, but almost secondary to the release of tension that I’d been carrying in my body. I relaxed a moment, hand wet between my thighs, letting my whole weight rest against the chair.

When I opened my eyes, I saw that the man had turned around to stand behind the woman with his hands on her shoulders. Now that he was inside the halo of light, I could see him more clearly. Those hands. That build. And most of all, those impossibly coloured eyes.

It was Davian. And I could have sworn he was looking right at me.

* * *

Now grateful that I was still mostly clothed, I tumbled out of the tiny room as fast as my orgasm-wracked body would let me, breathing heavily, feeling confused and off-balance. The only thing I knew for certain was that I needed to get out of L&L before he saw me.

So much for my respite, for my chance to hide away and recover. Whatever moments of peace I’d experienced mid-orgasm slipped away as I hurried outside and then down the sidewalk, feeling incredibly exposed by the late-afternoon light.

It wasn’t until I was on the street, blocks from L&L and at the very edge of the Sweet Spot, that I let myself stop and breathe and think. I clung to the wall with one hand, panting, trying to wrap my mind around everything.

OK, so it couldn’t really have been Davian, right? That was just too much of a coincidence. That was just too … weird.

And even if it was, there was no way he could have seen me inside the room. L&L was known for its discretion, for its customer safety and privacy. If they said a window was one-way, I believed them.

Why then had it seemed like he’d seen me somehow? Why had it seemed like he’d looked right at me at my moment of orgasm? It was a fever dream born of lust, I was sure. My oversexed mind had cooked up the image of him to add to my pleasure. That’s all it was.

I walked home, still tumbling everything over in my brain. What a day it had been. First Kyle. Then Davian. Then … whatever that was at L&L. People said bad things happened in threes. I wondered if that was true about really weird things as well. I hoped so. If it was true, at least it would mean all the odd things that were going to happen to me were over for a while.

Kyle, thankfully, wasn’t at my place, although there were a number of voice messages from him on my cell when I pulled it out of my pocket. I didn’t listen to them. I promised myself I’d call him in the morning, when I was feeling less Alice in Wonderlandish.

A hot bath. Some food. And sleep. Those were the things I needed, and in that order.

As it turned out, I didn’t make it to either of the first two. To my complete and utter surprise, I got as far as undressing, and then crawled under the covers and slept. Tomorrow is another day.