"I'm following you to make sure you get all the way home safely," she said.

"They're really paranoid, aren't they?"

"We have to be," she said.

I supposed she was right.

Five.

Boys Always Work it Out

I arrived back at the ArtiWorks and headed straight for my room. I hadn't been this aroused in all the time James and I had been separated.

I dug to the bottom of my suitcase, where a separate case was nestled among my dirty clothes. I opened it and took out the largest of the glass dildoes he had made for me. I took off my clothes and lay down on the bed with the dildo on my chest. While I waited for it to warm up, my mind went into fantasies. Not of Damon or the club, but of James.

James as Lord Lightning. I could remember the scent of his limo, the sound of the traffic outside the tinted windows. Normally, he would be conservatively dressed in an expensive and fine button-down shirt and jacket, if not in a full suit and tie. But I imagined him as he appeared in some of the fan photos, in a skintight shirt cut off above the waist exposing his toned abs and pants so form-fitting that the shape of his cock was visible through them. I slicked the dildo between my legs until it was well coated, and then began easing it inside.

It had been a while. I remembered how patient James was with me, though, coaxing me and taking his time putting it in. I imagined it was his hand keeping my lips spread. The bulk stretched my insides deliciously.

With a groan, I felt it slide the last inch into place.

It felt wrong to come too quickly because I wanted to make the feeling last. But I knew if I stroked my clit now, it wouldn't take long at all.

I sat up, a sudden idea burning in my head: LL limousine stories were a thing, eh? I crossed my legs, careful to keep the glass in place, and opened my laptop. I still had a browser window open to the LL fan site I had been reading.

Creating an account was free. I picked the username GlassTiara and clicked on Post a Story, then started to type: We hurried into the limousine, but once we were safe behind the tinted glass, once we were on our way, we could relax for a time.

"Come here, my pet," he said, and I nestled close to him, thinking I might nap on our way.

But he had other ideas. His hand slid down the small of my back and under the waistband of my underwear. He teased, slipping it further and further until my clothes impeded him. I predicted that I wouldn't be wearing them for long.

I was right. He whispered into my ear to strip from the waist down, and I did. He pulled me against him again, his other hand finding the space between my legs and then his finger finding the slick entry into my body. I gasped as he slid it inside of me.

He fucked me with his finger, his eyes roving from the place where it disappeared into my body up to my face, checking me for any signs of distress. The only sign I gave was to whisper, "More."

He worked a second finger in next to the first, fucking me slowly and murmuring into my ear. "Do you like that, my darling? Does that feel good?"

"Yes, oh yes, but I want more. I want you."

"I know you do, my pet." He pushed his fingers extra deep and wiggled them, his thumb flicking my clit.

He said nothing more, only continued to stimulate and tease me that way, sometimes speeding up his hand to fuck me hard for a few strokes, then slowing down to a torturous, gradual pace again.

After a while, I reached the edge of orgasm, my breath catching in my throat and my hands clutching at the jacket of his suit. He kept me on that cruel edge for a long time, while I wailed and tugged on his lapels and shook, to no avail.

And then I started to cry. "Please, please, why can't I have you?"

His laugh was deep and low. "You know why, my pet."

"I don't!"

He pushed his fingers deeper, but it wasn't enough.

"I need you! Please!" I cried out.

"No. You know what happened the last time I gave in to your demands."

"That won't happen again! I won't hurt you! I promise!"

But he clucked his tongue and shook his head.

"Please, James!" I whispered, pushing the laptop aside and crushing my clit against my fist as the first wave of orgasm swept through me. "Oh God! Please!" Tears of release came at the same time as the shudders and spasms of pleasure, shaking me and leaving me damp and limp all over.

I was still lying there, half-asleep, when my phone chimed with a text.

My heart jumped for a moment. I was still used to James being the only one with this number. I picked it up and looked at the message.

It was from Damon George: I have booked us a hotel suite in London for the weekend. I will forward you the exact address. Plan to arrive Friday after dinner, 9pm, and not leave until Sunday at least noon, possibly late afternoon or evening if warranted. If you agree, text me back: Yes, Mr. George.

I texted him back as he instructed, thinking that would be it for the night.

But another message came a second later. And now text me a photo of your cunny.

I knew what he meant, but my mind raced. I still had the dildo in, my pubic hair sopping wet. Everything was swollen. I sent: What?

Ha-ha. Your private parts, my dear.

I froze, a bunch of lies coming to the front of my mind. My camera doesn't work. I'm in a public place and I can't right now.

No. We're not doing that anymore. I realized I had a better thing to say. I don't have to do what you say until I set foot in the door of your hotel suite. Isn't that right?

For long moments, nothing happened. Then another text. That is right. Merely testing you. Good to see you can maintain appropriate boundaries. Very important skill.

I wasn't sure if he was serious or if he was saying that to make it look good. Whatever. See you at 9pm, I sent, and he didn't answer. Phew.

I put the phone aside and slid the dildo free carefully. I was exhausted. And it was going to be a long week.

I settled into something of a routine for the next few days. I'd spend the late morning answering questions from people at the exhibition, have lunch with Tristan, give the two-thirty group tour, and then after the museum closed, head back to the ArtiWorks to help Paul and Misha with the renovation work. There was a partition wall in back that had to come down. Misha handed me a heavy metal bar with a bend in one end and a hook on the other.

"What's this?" I asked.

"It's a wrecking bar," he said.

"What do I do with it?"

"Wreck!" He pointed at the wall with a gleeful gleam in his eye.

I hefted the bar in my hand before swinging it at the wall. The hooked end sank satisfyingly into the wall plaster. As I pulled it out, it ripped a hunk of the wall free.

"You get the idea," he said. "Have fun."

Swinging the wrecking bar turned out to be a lot of fun and must have been a good workout because my arm and shoulders were sore as hell the next day. I spent three days reducing that wall to rubble but I managed it. I wouldn't have wanted to do that for a living, but it was very satisfying to see the pile at the end and the nice big room that was created when the wall was gone.

I told them while we sat around one night in the wreckage, covered in plaster dust, eating Indian takeout (they called it "takeaway"), that I would be leaving for the weekend.

"Oh, are you going to take that trip to York you wanted?" Paulina asked. I'd told her I wanted to see York but not why. Not yet, anyway.

"No, that'll be next week. This weekend, I've actually got sort of a date right here in London," I said.

Michel brightened up. He had started growing a beard, and with his apple cheeks it gave him something of the look of a beaver or woodchuck. "Sort of date? That sounds more interesting than a regular date."

"Weekend-long date?" Paulina asked. "I take it you met someone."

You could say that. Even if I hadn't been sworn to silence about the society itself, I wouldn't have been prepared to tell them what was going on. "I gave a private tour of the exhibit to someone who took an interest in me."

"Hmm, but you don't sound that interested in him." She scooped curry from a container onto her plate. She had brought china plates with a painted pattern of bright blue and yellow flowers on their rims from upstairs for us to eat on. "Am I right?"

"I don't expect it to turn into a relationship," I said. "But I think I might learn something from him. And a weekend at an expensive hotel seems like it ought to be fun."

"Ah, cherie, I wish more young women had your attitude," Michel said. "Your eyes are wide open. You see him for what he is. Go. Have fun. Be open to the experience."

Paulina, though, was looking out for me. "If you need us to come get you, you know, just in case you don't like him or you feel like you can't stay, text or call us, eh? We'll pretend to be your parents."

"I'd like to think that if I need to leave there I could honestly say to him: 'This isn't fun. I want to leave.'" I tore off a piece of Indian bread and took a bite.

"But you're not so naive as to think that's always the case," Paulina said. "Sometimes, you have to do what you have to do to keep yourself safe. We'll come get you. Promise."

"You're so sweet! I'm pretty sure I can handle myself, but thank you."

It was very nice knowing someone had my back if it turned out Damon George was not what he seemed.

The hotel Damon had picked was near yet another famous place I had read about in books: Charing Cross. When I had first arrived in New York to start grad school, the same sort of thing had happened to me in the city. Broadway, Wall Street, Times Square, Madison Square Garden, these were like mythic place-names I'd heard all my life. Once I got used to being a New Yorker, they turned into mere addresses again. Here in London that feeling was even stronger, though, everything more historic, more ancient.

The summer sun was setting as I made my way across Trafalgar Square. Tons of people were milling about, including lots of tourists taking photos of a big statue of a guy on a horse. I didn't attempt to get close to the statue, concentrating on figuring out which of the streets leading away from the park I should take.

The hotel entrance faced the plaza in front of the Charing Cross train station and had various flags flying. I breezed past the main reception desk, and in the hallway beyond it was greeted by the flickering of tiny candles in glass jars all along the marble floor and on every stair of a grand staircase spiraling upward. Damon, I mean, Mr. George, had texted me the room number. I climbed the stairs, the candles making everything seem surreal and magical. On the second floor I found the elevators and up I went.

At the door to the suite I saw a small envelope taped next to the door handle. Please don't make this another wild-goose chase, I thought, as I peeled it free and opened it. Inside was the room key. Okay, at least it wasn't instructions to go to some other hotel. I checked inside the envelope to make sure. Wait, there was a note.

Printed in small, neat letters: If you are willing, unlock the door, come into the room, close it behind you, and strip. Leave your clothes in a pile by the door, along with your overnight bag. Crawl to where you find me. When you demonstrate your willingness, you also demonstrate your trust and your understanding that I will not harm you. If you do not trust me to keep you safe, leave now.

I paused to think about it. Did I trust him not to hurt me? Yes. Did I trust him to keep to the society's rules? Definitely. But did I trust him beyond that? Not a chance. Damon George had his own agenda, somewhere underneath it all, but that wasn't really all that relevant to me. I had my own agenda, too, after all.

I'm doing this for you, James.

I slipped the key card into the lock and the door opened. I closed it behind me. Looking around the room, I saw it was a spacious parlor done in rich eggplant purple and cream colors, with a sitting area to one side, a small dining table, and then through a wide entrance, the sumptuous bedroom with windows overlooking the plaza.

I could see the back of his head. He was seated in an armchair, looking out the window. His suit jacket and tie were draped over the back of the chair.

I took off my clothes and folded them into a neat pile as instructed. When I had nothing on, I dropped to the velvet-soft purple carpet and crawled over to him. I debated as I went whether I should stop next to the chair or go all the way around to the front.

Hmm. Was I allowed to ask? Or was the instruction sheet a kind of "silent treatment"? Or was it all a test to see how I would interpret its meaning? That seemed like the sort of thing he would do.

I settled on crawling around in front of him and putting my head down on the carpet like it had been at the end of the "interview."

Seconds ticked by. I figured that was part of the test, too. We'd see which one of us got impatient first.

He did. "Please me," he said.

I looked up. "Excuse me?"

His expression was stern. "Did you not hear me? I said please me."

I blinked at him for a few more seconds, trying to think of what to do. "I don't know you well enough to know what pleases you."

"Then it is your job to guess and find out," he said.

His shirt was unbuttoned partway. That gave me an idea.

"May I touch you?" I asked.

"Yes."

I reared up on my knees and shuffled forward to finish unbuttoning his shirt and untucking it from his trousers. Once it was free, I could see he was so erect that the red tip of his cock had pushed past his waistband. That gave me a very definite idea of something that might please him.

I put my hands behind my back and worked his belt open using my teeth. At first it was a little tricky, but once I got the end free, it took one smooth pull to undo the buckle. His fly was a single button and not overly tight, which made it simple to open.

All the movement made him even harder, and a good inch or two was protruding by the time I was ready to tug his waistband down farther with my teeth. I didn't pull it far, only enough to expose another inch, and then I licked what was showing. He smelled spicy and clean, like he'd showered when he got here. I maneuvered the head into my mouth and sucked gently. I couldn't tell how long he was, but the head fit easily in my mouth, making me think he was smaller than James.

"Well, well, Karina, if I worried you were going to be frigid, I guess those worries are gone now." He chuckled. "Without taking your mouth from where it is, what I'd like you to do next is reach between your legs and make yourself come. Keep sucking me. Do I need to tell you to be careful of your teeth? No? Good. Now go on."

My cheeks flared with heat as I did as he asked. Somehow sucking him wasn't as personal as this. But I slid two fingers down my seam and wasn't surprised to find how wet I was. My clit throbbed. I ran my fingers on either side of it and sucked a little harder to keep him firmly in my mouth.

It became tricky as I got closer, as my breathing grew choppy and little sounds of desire burbled up my throat. Concentrating on not biting him, keeping my tongue and head moving, while also trying to get myself off, was difficult. I think it was supposed to be.