Work Text:
IN JANET’S OFFICE
“Why are they all billionaires?” Avia asked in disgust. “Multi-millionaires aren’t good enough to have hot, kinky sex with?”
Janet Julia Johnson, feature editor of The Week , the news magazine that had scandalized (and dominated) the industry by publishing an online edition while the rest scrambled around figuring out which mouse button to click, sipped her morning coffee and didn’t bother to answer. She knew Avia, friend as well as award-winning writer, was just getting wound up.
“And not only that,” Avia went on, “How are they all twenty-eight years old with ‘slabs’ of muscle? Have these women never seen an actual billionaire? Do they think Bill Gates is ripped? How about Warren Buffet? Fifty is young on the billionaire list! Seventy is standard.”
Janet cocked her head and raised an eyebrow.
“Okay, Nathan Blecharczyk’s kind of a cute guy,” Avia conceded, “But he’s a boy next store, not a sexual super-stud.” Avia drank from her own large mug of more hot chocolate than coffee, settling back into her chair and her argument. “And do these heroines all have some sort of neurological deficit? Every single one of them stumbles, falls or collapses into the arms of a wildly attractive rich guy with a rock hard chest. If most of us stumbled into someone else, it’d be a sweaty fat guy with halitosis.
“I’m also wondering how the writers seem to have no basic understanding of male biology. All these guys can come for minutes at a time? Or even one? And pump out veritable oceans of cum? I mean, seriously, J.J., don’t we have a big enough wet spot to avoid with the one or two teaspoons we get in reality?”
Janet shrugged and waited. Avia wasn’t close to done; she hadn’t asked the question.
“I mean, I like sex as much as the next woman, I think. I’d love to meet a guy who can go as long as I want, whenever I want, stay as hard as I want and be as big as I want, and be completely focused on my pleasure. But even at 28, how many men can maintain an eight-hour erection and multiple orgasms? Every night. Every day. Multiple times a day.”
Janet smiled. Avia was entertaining, as always.
“OH! Oh, aaaannnnnd ….,” Avia went on, “... the billionaires are ALL damaged by traumatic childhoods only this one, clumsy-ass, never-knows-she’s-hot, could-care-less-about-money, twenty-year-old woman, in all the world, can understand and somehow cure. Exactly how do neurotic, emotionally screwed-up sex addicts could ever manage to build business empires? Who are the women who read this stuff and why would you give me this … assignment ?”
The question. Avia had spit out the last word, obviously repressing the urge to say ...
“This piece of shit assignment, you mean?” Janet asked equably. This time, Avia shrugged.
“I gave it to you because you’re the best I’ve got. Because you know how to delve into the deepest layers of an issue and expose every facet of the people, the situation, the broader implications. Two city Councilman resigned after your story on outsider influence in city politics. One of whom was later indicted. And …” Jan held up a hand as Avia opened her mouth to respond, “ … as for who the women are who buy and read these books? The books I gave you to read came out of my own library.”
Avia’s mouth closed and her eyebrows lifted. Janet was one of the brightest, most powerful and self-confident women she’d ever met. Why would she seek out erotica that invariably depicted submission to a Dominant male? Suddenly, the assignment was interesting.
Janet put the coffee aside and sat forward. She needed Avia to hear her.
“This isn’t trivial or I’d give it to someone else. There’s a story here. It isn’t just that female ‘erotica’ is suddenly so wildly popular and culturally accepted that women are openly buying the books off stacks on tables at big box stores. It’s that they are seeking something in droves that they aren’t getting anywhere else.
“I’m sure the readers do know the physical limitations of men in real life. Is that why they seek the fictional kind? Or is it something more? What do the fantasy billionaires giving them that the guy at the next desk can’t, besides a mile-high fuck on a private jet? What are we missing about how women see themselves and what they want that these books supply?”
Janet ducked her head to hide a smile. In the middle of her speech, Avia had taken out her ever-present notebook, jotting notes on the questions Janet was asking. Avia was the only one of her staff who still used a pencil and paper, instead of a digital recorder.
“Besides,” Janet finished. “In a fantasy, there’s never a wet spot.”
Avia finished writing and sat very still, pen poised - waiting. Silent and attentive, now. This ability to become a human information receptacle helped make Avia the fine journalist she was. She didn’t so much question a source, as allow her subjects to reveal themselves. She appeared impartial. Non-judgemental. Regardless of how surprising or disgusting the revelations might be. She had the gift of inspiring trust.
“I asked you to look into contemporary female erotica wondering if you’d start asking the same questions I did. I think you would have given time, but, time ran out, so -” Janet swung her laptop around so Avia could see the screen. “ Do you know who this is?”
Avia studied the image of a man in a tuxedo entering what looked like the Performing Arts Center at night. She judged him to be in his early thirties, the natural wave of his medium-length hair defeating whatever product used to keep it in place. Errant curls drifted over his clean brow.
“No idea,” Avia responded.
“His name is Ben Hart.” Janet looked for a sign of recognition, but Avia shook her head. “You have an appointment to interview him this morning. Which is the only time he had this week.”
“You’re taking me off the erotica assignment?” Avia asked, with a twinge of disappointment now that J.J. had piqued her interest in the topic.
“No.” Janet clicked to a new screen. It was page two of the daily newspaper. The headline read: ‘Companion’ Sues Sex Toy Maker for Millions Claiming Deviant Sexual Assault.
“Isn’t sexual assault deviant by definition?” Avia asked rhetorically scanning the story. “You want me to get his side of the story, this … sex toy guy?”
“Sure, if he’ll give it to you, but I’m pretty confident he won’t.”
Avia made a note. “Ben Hart … is that ‘Benjamin?’ ”
“Benedict,” Janet corrected. “Ben’s doing me a favor.” Avia looked up from her pad at Janet’s familiar use of the man’s nickname.
“We met at Cornell. I consider him a friend. When I called him this morning for a comment on the lawsuit, he demurred. But did agree to an interview as deep background for your story.” Janet stood, motioning Avia to follow. “He knows what women want in their ‘sexual support products,’ as he calls them, and his publishing house markets a large selection of ebooks. Two of the five best-selling erotica authors are on his list, exclusively.”
“He willing to share demographic info with us?” Avia asked.
Janet stopped at the door. “Yes. But I also thought it would be interesting to talk to a flesh and blood guy who represents the typical reader’s dream lover.”
Avia eyed her friend suspiciously. “Hang on. ‘Suing him for millions.’ Don’t tell me. He’s - ?”
“ - a billionaire,” Janet finished. “And he’s expecting you in an hour. C’mon, I’ll walk you out and brief you.”
ON THE ROAD
Avia drove with every window open, enjoying the perfect September day. Perfect days were typical of Colorado. A brilliant blue sky, a line of spectacular Rocky Mountain peaks, a clean breeze from a mountain canyon sweeping across the plains outside Denver.
She turned into a well-graded gravel road, followed it up a steep slope, navigating switchbacks. She couldn’t see much until the car reached the final turn and the slope evened out to a more gentle rise. A huge, three-story stone edifice came into view above her. House? She thought. Looks like fortress .
A low square building came into view. The gravel road terminated at its parking lot. Several small vehicles that looked like modified golf carts sat near a paved track that led away from the lot toward a high stone security wall.
She pulled into a parking space and grabbed her comb out of her console. She paid very well for the shortish, layered cut that allowed her to restore her wind-battered hair to a something simple but stylish with a few fast strokes. Some clear lip gloss followed. Colorado was a dry climate, and she didn’t want to be licking her lips during an interview.
Exiting her car, she found one of the carts stopped nearby. A a middle-aged Hispanic man with lightly salted black hair and a warm smile waited for her.
“Ms. Rivers?”
“I am,” she said, realizing the cart was electric; its approach virtually silent.
“I’m Hugo Ramos, Mr. Hart’s Chief of Staff.” He gestured her toward the vehicle. “I’ll take you to him.”
Avia slipped into the cart’s passenger seat and fished her notebook out of her pocket. “Chief of Staff. Like the President has?”
He laughed. “He didn’t know what else to call me, I think. ‘Guy who manages all kinds of stuff in my life and business’ is really hard to fit on a business card.”
>>>>>
LVNG BRBCN
Ben Hart deleted Hugo’s text, as he did all texts, before he set his cell to vibrate and slid it into his trouser pocket. He didn’t want his time with the reporter interrupted, but he also didn’t want to miss any information Hugo deemed important enough to send him during the interview.
It wasn’t that he was so looking forward to what he presumed would be a fairly tedious hour explaining his choice of profession. But the fewer distractions, the faster he could deliver what information she wanted (that I’m willing to give) and get back to his day.
The closed circuit feed over the bar showed the security cart arriving at the front entrance. A woman’s leg, a rather nice one, swung out. The foot, shod in a simple black pump, felt for the ground. Her skirt hiked up as she slid out and - was that a stocking top ? Ben grinned at the image. Why Ms. Rivers, how not hard-boiled reporter of you .
Rather than follow the security feed inside to the elevator, he set his laptop to the Hart Development welcome screen, and opened several more pages relevant to the coming discussion, behind it. Then he clicked on an email Hugo sent, with Ms. Rivers information. Hugo’d had less than an hour, but he’d collected a decent amount of data and examples of her writing.
Ben’s mood improved while skimming Rivers’ bio and examples of her work. His old friend wasn’t exaggerating. Ms. Rivers was talented. And she had nice legs. Maybe this won’t be so bad .
>>>>>
“Wow,” was all Avia could say when Ramos had led her through the huge double entrance doors, being sure the holy shit that had sprung to her lips existed well outside bounds of acceptable, professional language use. Besides, wow is really appropriate .
Instead of the large entryway or hall she’d expected, she’d entered a two-story jungle of green. A stream flowed in from outside, burbling over rocks and diving under a far wall.
Birds. Live, exotic, colorful. They flitted and flew amongst the branches of twenty-foot high trees.
Hugo Ramos waited while she gawked. “This came with the house, too. We were told it maintains heat in winter and absorbs it in summer. Anyway, here it stays. Mr. Hart likes the birds.”
“Don’t they ever poop on your head?” she couldn’t help asking.
“More often than I want to think about,” he said, moving off into the interior. “The elevator is this way.”
She followed him down a hallway, to an elevator, door open and waiting.
“Is this for my convenience? I’d be fine taking the stairs,” she said, wanting to see more of the house.
Ramos led her inside and the door slid closed.
“There is no stairway access to the Keep,” he said. He entered a code into a security keypad, turning his body to block her view. The elevator ascended briefly. They came to a halt and the doors slid open.
“Straight on to the end of the hall and knock. Mr. Hart’s waiting for you,” Hugo Ramos said.
Ramos waited. He’d been quite friendly and open during the ride up to the house. But she knew he wouldn’t leave her until she’d passed through that last door, protecting Hart’s privacy.
She walked the long hall while making notes of Ramos’ responses. Walking and writing was a skill she’d mastered long ago. Avia didn’t know one other person even close to her age who took shorthand. She’d acquired those skills, not for menial job security, but because she immediately grasped it would make interview notes more secure. No one could take her digital recorder and listen to interviews. And no one could read over her shoulder and make sense of what looked like meaningless squiggles.
She slipped the notebook into the pocket of her skirt when she reached the last door. As was her custom, she’d left her bag locked in the trunk of her car. Time to meet the sex toy king . She knocked.
“Come,” a strong masculine voice called. Avia heard a faint click. The door had been electronically unlocked. She turned the solid brass knob and pushed the heavy door open.
THE MEETING
Ben Hart rose from his desk chair as Avia entered the room. He took a step toward her, extending his hand, bending just slightly forward to take hers in a brief, firm handshake.
“Ms. Rivers. Ben Hart.”
She smiled. “Hello, thanks for seeing me.”
A subtle metallic click when the door closed, caught her attention. She looked back at the door.
“We’re locked in?” she asked.
“It’s just about security,” he told her. “There’s proprietary information, prototypes and so forth on this floor.”
She stepped further into the room and he closed the door behind her, his gaze sliding automatically over her.
Ben Hart liked women. He’d made a ridiculously large amount of money understanding what they wanted and giving it to them. He noticed them. The things they said. How they moved. What they wore. He enjoyed unravelling the mystery of them.
Now, he studied Avia Rivers. He noted that her full, camel-colored skirt fell to just below the knee. The skirt had side pockets he presumed were for utility, as she carried no purse. A silky white blouse was held in place by a soft black leather belt. Her hair was layered and just long enough to grab a fistful of. The color such a dark blond it looked brown in room light. But he suspected in sunlight, it would be awash in glints of gold.
Avia was dressed in simple good taste for comfort and utility. She neither flaunted her sexuality, nor hid her femininity. He preliminarily assigned her to the unfortunately small subset of women who liked themselves. His assessment reaffirmed by her easy humor and comfort in his company. Ben Hart never tried to be an intimidating presence, a stereotypical Uber-controlling manufacturing magnate. He’d never been very interested in controlling things or people. He’d hired Hugo to do that.
She looked around the large room as he looked at her. To her left, an area comprising half the very large room held a variety of unfamiliar objects. There was an odd-looking couch, a recliner and what looked like covered machines of some sort. Across from them, in the wall she faced, a set of arched double doors gave access to a bright, sunlit terrace.
Noting the longing glance she cast at the sunlight pouring through the arched doors, he asked, “Would you like to chat out on the terrace for a while?”
“Yes, thank you,” she said, moving to the doors.
Avia reached for one of the brass handles. Another metallic click. He dropped a remote control into the pocket of his suit coat and followed her outside.
She went directly to the four-foot high balustrade and leaned out into the light wind, taking a deep breath, absorbing the view: Mount Evans visible to the north and Pikes Peak clearly outlined to the south. Yellow-gold patches of mid-September aspen splashed across deep green stands of lodge pole pine. Even to a native Coloradan like Avia, used to spectacular vistas from fast food parking lots, it was a very fine view.
Ben hung back, also taking in a view.
He leaned against the sun-warmed wall of the Keep. The west wind tousled her hair, glinting with the gold highlights he’d expected and rippled her long skirt over her strong thighs and the sweet curves of her ass. And with his cock stirring against his thigh, less than three minutes since they’d met, she became personal to him. Needful , to him.
And that was dangerous. She’s a reporter .
>>>>>
Avia gazed steadily into the far distance and took a series of slow, deep breaths. It was a centering technique.
I need centering , she thought. She was working and had only a minute to regain the professional distance she’d lost when Ben Hart took two long strides toward her, bent slightly from the waist, and offered his hand. It was bad enough that he was great-looking. Really, Avi? Great? Yeah. As much as she hated to admit it. The profile shot didn’t do his clean arched brows or chiseled cheekbones or sculpted mouth anything in the same time zone as justice. Yeah, bad enough he looked like a character in one of his own books, but -
It was such a gentlemanly thing to do. That bend from the waist, keeping his body away, extending his hand. Not crowding her, not getting into her space like so many men, or grabbing her hand or using two of his or - ugh - kissing her hand.
She responded on autopilot. The pleasant smile, the thanks for seeing me , taking his hand into her own. But she felt … presence . As if he emanated an invisible force field that enveloped her. It was powerful. Sexual . Magnetic.
Next thing you know, you’ll be stumbling into his rock-hard chest . She mentally rolled her eyes at herself. Still, it looked like it might be a very fine chest filling the summer grey coat of his bespoke suit. The white shirt open at the collar, showed a triangle of tanned skin, the shadowed hollow at the base of his throat. He didn’t strike her as a ripped as much as … solid.
The wind freshened, bringing her back to the moment. Get to work . But before she could turn around, he was there. Beside her. Enveloping her in his presence. Making her hyperaware of his body. And a very particular lower region of hers. Okay, enough .
Avia stepped back casually, away from the warmth of his nearness that bathed her, despite the cool west wind.
BEN WITH AVIA ON THE TERRACE
Ben Hart was long-practiced in the art of not being a servant to his body. He moved smoothly to Avia’s side, resting his hands on the rail and pushing his thickening cock into the cool stone of a baluster. The enticing curves beneath the flow of Avia’s skirt were no longer visible to him. He reminded himself there was a story to be told and one not to be told.
She stepped back and turned around, looked back toward the house. To the right of the doors, a blue and white striped canvas awning created a shady conversation space with a variety of patio furniture.
“Can we sit?” She asked, with a nod toward a round cedar table.
“Absolutely.” He said, leading her to it. She opened her notebook, obviously ready to get to on with the interview. Fine with him. “You editor said you were interested in my customer demographics for erotica?”
“Can you tell me now why what’s popular, is?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I can give you my personal opinions, if you think that’s useful. There aren’t a lot of social scientists studying what women want in sex aids and erotic fiction. I do base my product development and marketing based on those opinions, though. Seems to be working, so far.”
“Please,” she answered. “I’d like to hear anything, everything, you have to say on the subject.” She leaned forward, eyes on his, giving him the impression that nothing in the world could possibly be more interesting than his next words.
Damn, she’s good , he thought, staring straight back into eyes … were they turquoise ? Yes, green-blue with flecks of gold. Stay on topic , he told himself.
“In terms of erotica,” he began, “ ... in general, women want lots of steamy sex with an Alpha male who is well-versed in the art of pleasuring. They want a fantasy where they can relax and let him take charge. But the hero’s dominant behavior only works for the reader because the man is besotted with the heroine. Only she can satisfy his needs.”
Avia stopped writing, and waited. He’d paused to give her space to ask a question, but she was content to simply listen. He wondered if she knew what a heady aphrodisiac that was for a man: A woman who wanted nothing more than to listen to him without question or comment.
“That’s speaking generally,” He said. "I understand you'd like me to be a comparative model for the Billionaire books, which are the focus of your article?”
Avia nodded and flipped back a page. “Okay …" She reviewed her notes. “Most of them are twenty-eight, but you do manage to come in under the upper age limit, at thirty-two.”
"Whew! Dodged a bullet, there!" He grinned, sudden dimples bracketing his sculpted mouth. "Where do you place me on the brain synapse fryingly handsome scale?"
“You do know the tropes,” she said. “I hadn’t placed you, yet, but …” She took a few moments to study him. No way was she going to stroke what was probably quite a healthy ego by going into rapturous detail over his face … and shoulders … and arms … .
“You do have nice, dark, I’d call it sable-colored, hair.” She finally said. “Thick. Bit of wave.” She said. “Yup. Perfectly acceptable erotic billionaire hair.” She leaned first to one side, then the other. “And good ears.”
“I don’t think a single one of my Billionaire writers has ever described the man’s ears.”
“Maybe they should,” she returned. “Ears are an erogenous zone, after all. And yours are nice. Flat against your skull, not thick or lumpy. Attached earlobes.”
“Unattached earlobes aren’t sexy?”
“Only on the heroines of the books,” Avi said. “Hero needs something to suck on and drag teeth over. And then there’s danglage. Danglage is not nearly as effective with attached earlobes.”
“A word with which I am not familiar.” He grinned again, finding her amusing, apparently.
She shrugged. “That’s because I just made it up. So - danglage. Detached earlobes give her something from which to dangle the outrageously expensive diamond earrings the billionaire will buy her and she’ll at first refuse, because, heaven forbid, she have any interest, whatsoever, in his money. ”
“Would you be interested in the money?” He asked. “If you were the heroine in one of the novels you read?”
“Of course I would be. Anyone would be,” Avia answered. “At least, it would be impossible to consider a long-term commitment without it being an influence.
"You think most women are gold-diggers?" He asked..
"I think this is life-changing money," she answered. "Very few of us have lives without a constant kind of hum of tension in the back of our minds. Wondering what we’ll do if the transmission falls out of the car or we lose our jobs or have to support our aging parents." She shrugged.
“I’m just saying that believing the women in these books wouldn't give the money a thought, except to be uncomfortable spending it, is more than you should expect from any reader. They're 'billionaire' books for a reason. If he's on the same economic level as she is, you have an entirely different story."
He started texting. You had to make a speech. Bore the shit out of him, besides insulting him. Probably getting someone to show you out.
“Sorry,” he said focused on his phone. “Just want to have the writers deal with the question at some point in the stories. Going to need a teleconference ... One more second, I want to get Hugo to set that up …”
Avia put a great deal of effort into not letting her mouth drop open. It was possibly the most flattering thing any man had ever said to her. Careful. He’s way too easy to like.
He put the phone away and looked up at her, expectantly.
“Okay, two more things,” she went on. “The heroes of these books all have damaged psyches and tortured souls from traumatic backgrounds.” She focused closely on him. “Do you?”
“I grew up on a ranch outside of Fargo,” he said. “With two not overly bratty sisters and a nerdy little brother who idolized me until he found out he could do math I couldn’t when he was eleven and I was fifteen.” He smiled at the thought. “Maybe that traumatized him, I don’t know. We were well-loved and had a lot of chores to do. Which made us feel part-of, not burdened-by.”
Avia interpreted the warmth in his voice as a side effect of revisiting childhood memories. She wanted to know more about his personal life. But she didn’t want to spook him when the elephant in the room question was next.
She made some notes. “Last item on my list. These men all have non-standard relationships with women. They are all Dominants. All single and want to stay that way. They all have insatiable libidos, avoid emotional intimacy with women but are still, somehow, experts at pleasing them in bed.”
“I think my libido is as normal and satiable as anyone’s. As to my sexual expertise, modesty forbids me to comment.” He said.
And there he sat with his billionaire hair flopping around in the breeze, his frankly appraising look and his apparent sincerity and she realized she was charmed by him. And beginning to suspect he was a nice guy.
“It’s getting chilly out here. Shall we go in?” He asked.
>>>>>
She followed him back inside. He crossed the room to his desk, but she paused to examine the couch and recliner near the terrace doors.
“Do you ever sit over here?” she asked.
“Everything you see in this room, is in my catalogue.” He answered.
“In your catalogue? These are ‘sexual support’ products?” She walked over to the black leather recliner. “This is a recliner, isn’t it? How does it support sexual … activity?”
“There are demonstration videos for all the products on the website,” he told her.
“I’m here, now. Would you mind?” She asked, knowing personal experiences added depth and color to a story.
He hesitated a few seconds. “As you wish. Remove your shoes and have a seat.” He joined her at the recliner.
She kicked off her pumps and did as she was told.
“This chair was our first offering in the Hartfelt line.” He said. “It’s a positioning system and still one of our top sellers. It takes the place of several more common but less user-friendly devices.”
Avia noticed his demeanor had shifted, He’d become more impersonal. Controlled. She felt a new energy from his. More powerful. Very much the CEO. Had she offended him, somehow? But he spoke easily to her, as if she were a buyer.
“You’ll notice the proportions are skewed from those of a normal recliner. It’s narrower, the back higher, the seat shorter. You can sit with your feet flat on the floor, but your back is still fully supported. Try it.”
Avia slid back in the chair. He was right.
Ben moved to the side of the chair. “Grab the arms and hold your legs straight out,” he ordered.
She obeyed, and he rotated a lever on the side of the chair. The footrest lifted and extended. “Put your feet back on the floor about a foot apart.”
When Avia put her feet down, she noticed the “footrest” was, in fact, a seat supported by two sections of metal that extended out from under the chair and turned up to support it.
Ben slid onto the seat. He leaned forward, his feet and knees between hers and sought something under the arms of the chair. He paused, until she met his cool gaze.
He pulled back hard on something and forced her feet and knees apart.
“Holy shit!” She was semi-reclined with her legs spread and her hips thrust forward to the edge of the seat cushion. The outsides of his knees pressed to the insides of her own. He kept them there, holding her legs apart under her long skirt.
“So,” he asked conversationally, “If you were nude, what do you think I might do to you, now?”
He rose and bent over her, hands on the chair arms, darkening eyes locked on hers, his voice husky and low.
“ And how comfortable will you be in this position, for how long, while I do it? ”
Avia felt a sudden clenching heat between her legs. Her knees tightened automatically, meeting his unyielding calves. From the smoldering, knowing look in his eyes, he was completely aware of her sudden arousal. For one more long moment he held her there.
He stood abruptly and returned the chair to its normal position.
“You see, Ms. Rivers,” he continued the sales pitch as if nothing had happened. She struggled to sit up with a modicum of grace. “For, well, thousands of years I suppose would not be an exaggeration, sex aids have been designed principally for the benefit of men.”
He took one of her hands in his. She noticed how large his hands were, then. How long and strong his tapered fingers were. The nails short and clean. He pulled, indicating he wanted her to rise.
She allowed him to draw her from the chair and ended up standing near enough to his chest to feel the heat from his body. And he smelled … what was that? The scent of clean wind off the mountains, and something underneath, warm and spicy. Maybe it’s just pheromones.
Avia felt a strong urge to stumble.
He took a step back and continued his talk. “A standard S-lounger or tantra-chair is a narrow armless chaise lounge in an ess shape that the man lies back on, his knees bent and comfortably supported. The woman sits astride, her legs hang off the sides. There’s deep penetration. She does all the work, usually.”
Avia noted that he spoke as if that was a flaw, though she could think of several times such an item would have come in handy with Jackson, a former lover. ‘Avia astride’ was his favorite position. She’d often worked desperately to get her knees far enough into the mattress to gain the penetration she needed to come while he smirked up at her, enjoying her frustration. In fact, that smirk had been the major reason she’d broken up with him.
“But for a woman to fully experience and sustain a deep, totally consuming orgasm,” Ben was saying, “She needs to be able to surrender fully to her body. To relax totally.”
… a deep, totally consuming orgasm … Had she ever experienced one of those?
He moved another lever and the chair flattened and then the center raised. He swung the arms out to the sides and locked them into place. The “footrest” stayed closed.
“It’s angle and height-adjustable. You can lie very comfortably on your front, arms supported, and relax while your companion has full access to your pudendum. The device facilitates oral sex, vaginal and anal intercourse, and can be used as a spanking table,” he said in his chatty salesman’s tone..
“Now look,” he said and manipulated the chair back to starting position once more. He sat in it himself, finding a release on the side. The arms slid forward and the chair tilted back, the seat and footrest re-angled. The chair formed the ess shape he’d described in the sex chaise lounge.
“This is the only thing most sex chairs do. But in our chair - ” He explained and locked his knowing gaze on her. “ - the armrests slide forward allowing space for your legs to hang over the sides. You use the arms for support and control the angle, speed and depth of penetration, to satisfy yourself, as well as him.”
Yes, she would have liked having Jackson in that chair, she thought. Torture him for a while with deep thrusts too slow for him to come … and his face was replaced in her mind by that of her host, his hands on her hips, moving her to pleasure them both. As she looked into Ben Hart’s eyes, Avia had the thought that he knew exactly what she was imagining. That somehow, he had put the image into her mind. She closed her eyes. Don’t be absurd .
Ben returned the device to its starting position and stood up.
Avia caught a gleam of silver as the chair righted itself. She slipped into her shoes and examined the chair more closely. Under the arms and along the edges of the back and sides, she found embedded metal half-rings. She looked the question to Ben, regarding her impassively.
“The chair accommodates most types of restraining devices. It also comes with it’s own custom set.” He explained.
Avia nodded. I see . “Is that why all these things came to be in this room? For display?”
“No, Avia,” he said, using the familiar form of address for the first time. He moved over to his desk. She followed, but at a distance. He sat down and swivelled to face her, not at all discommoded by the fact she remained standing.
“This is where I spend time with my Companion, when I have one,” he said. “This is where we have sex.”
Avia considered - wait - didn’t that mean …
“So, you personally use your products and test your prototypes. Here. With your companions.” He nodded. “You’re the one doing the fucking. The restraining. The spanking.”
He nodded. She considered. He waited.
“So …” she hesitated, feeling her way along her thought path, “... you’re a Dominant.”
“Correct,” he said. “You see? I fit the fictional profile better than you thought.”
Avia stilled, but kept her face open and impersonal.
Ben waved her into the single guest chair, a solid mahogany frame with arms, back and seat padded in dark red leather. It sat to the side of his desk, instead of in front. In this way, when turned toward her in the matching executive chair, he faced her directly, rather than across a no-man’s land of desktop.
She lowered herself into the visitor’s chair and took out her notebook, flipping through some pages. He knew she was buying time to absorb what she’d seen and experienced. Heard.
He noticed she didn’t cross her legs, but hooked one ankle behind the opposite one, legs at a slant, knees together. It was an habitual, unconscious and inherently modest posture. Inherent modesty had possibilities.
He retrieved some papers from his center desk drawer. “I’d like us to sign these now,” he said.
Avia took the papers. “Non-disclosure agreement” headed the top of the first page.
“You’re on deep background, already. Why do you want this?” she asked.
“You’re boss called me this morning for a comment on something I cannot address in any way. I’d like to be able to discuss some things with you that could be interpreted as touching on that which I cannot acknowledge.” He stopped.
“Wow, that was convoluted,” she said. “You want me to sign this so you can speak freely.”
“Yes.”
“But that would be in my best interests in terms of my assignment. Why would you need a nondisclosure agreement?” she asked.
“I’d like to discuss Companionship with you,” he said simply.
The term caught Avia’s attention. “Companion is the word the woman who’s suing you used. You want to discuss the the allegations?”
“No,” he said. “I want to discuss Companionship. With you.”
Oh . “Mr. Hart - “ she began.
“Ben,” he interrupted.
She smiled, but went on as if he hadn’t spoken. She very much didn’t want to be on a first name basis with him at this moment. This moment where reality seemed to be shifting beneath her feet.
“If I understand correctly, you want to have a conversation with me, in your business office, during a business meeting, about the possibility of a personal relationship between us, ” she stated. “Please correct me if I’ve misunderstood.”
“The only misunderstanding is about where we are. This isn’t my business office, that’s in a building at the Tech Center. I helicopter over a few times a week for meetings. You and I are meeting here, instead, because I’m doing a friend a private favor. Because we are safe from prying eyes and cameras.” He nodded at the end of the room with the recliner and couch. “Because there’re products here I thought you’d be interested in seeing.”
“It makes me wonder why you’ve covered some of them up, then. If we’re here because I would want to see the products.”
“They’re prototypes. Just the sight of them constitutes proprietary information.” He answered. “I think there’s plenty you can see that will be ... educational.”
“So, what is this place, then?” she asked. “A showroom?”
Instead of answering, he reached out gently and took the papers back from her. He filled something in and signed it. He handed them back.
“That’s a standard form I use before any woman has been invited to sit down in that chair and discuss Companionship with me.”
He’d gotten very serious. Intense. Held her gaze, as if asking do you understand?
She did. The woman who claimed he’d assaulted her, if she had been a Companion, (whatever that really meant) had also signed this agreement to which he was bound as well as she. And he could not speak of “Companionship” in any way, unless Avia signed.
Without giving it any more thought, Avia signed both copies, handing one back to him.
“You didn’t read it,” he said.
“I’m here on a story, Mr. Hart. No matter what it takes, I want as complete access to your knowledge and experience as I can get.”
“Ms. Rivers, that’s exactly what I’d like to give you.”
>>>>>
Before she attempted to decipher that last statement, Avia made a few notes. “These are just reminders of non-NDA follow-up questions I want to cover with you,” she said, glancing up at him. “Would you show me your imprint list?” she asked.
“Certainly.” He clicked one of the pages he’d kept open and turned the monitor toward her.
Red Deer Publishing: Romance - Erotica
- Sweethart Classic Romance
- Hartlands Historical Romance
- Hartless D/s Romance
- Blackhart B&D Romance
She studied the list and made a note. “Tell me why Dominant/submissive and bondage and discipline are separate categories. Doesn’t the first imply the second?”
“Not at all,” he said. “Many women want a strong, confident, dominant male to take charge in a sexual situation. They want to surrender, which is why the word appears in so many romance book titles. Safe submission is their fantasy.
“For them,” He went on, “it’s one thing to have a man push them up against a wall and grab them by the hair. It’s quite another to be handcuffed by him. They don’t equate bondage or spanking with erotic arousal and intimacy, but only with punishing pain and emotional distance.”
Avia shook her head, while making notes. “I think most women would agree with the pain and distance assessment.”
“The numbers don’t support you,” he said. “Blackhart is our most popular imprint.”
He admitted to himself he took some satisfaction in her surprised look as her mouth dropped open just the slightest bit. She recovered quickly and went back to making notes.
“Help me out here,” she said. “How do I explain that to my readers, those like myself who cannot imagine how spanking could lead to arousal and certainly not intimacy? Why would a psychologically healthy, self-confident woman want to be spanked as part of a sexual encounter? And why, if she wants that, would she have to be restrained, at all?”
He took a moment to compose his answer. “Restraint assists the user with control. All our positioning devices come with restraining mounts. If they didn’t, people would buy an inferior product that did. For most users, restraint makes sexual stimulation of any kind, including spanking, more effective. More arousing.”
“The ‘user’ being the man doing the spanking,” she said.
“No, Avia,” he responded, and smiled a little, knowingly, holding her turquoise gaze. “I’m speaking specifically, because of your research, of the woman. In part, the depth of her pleasure in being fondled, stroked or spanked, is tied directly to the effectiveness of her restraints.”
“ ‘In part’,” she repeated. “What’s the other part?”
“The ability of the man restraining her, touching her, spanking her, to give her what she wants, the way she wants, for as long as she wants,” he replied evenly.
A sudden, aching heat bloomed between her legs as he spoke. Avia ruthlessly suppressed the urge to lick her lips or shift in her seat. What the fuck? She’d never had a bondage or spanking fantasy in her life, hadn’t responded to the descriptions in the books she’d read since undertaking this assignment.
Maybe it’s him . The thought was a relief. Yes, maybe it is. After all, she was locked in with a powerful, attractive Alpha male speaking openly about giving a woman exactly what she wanted in bed. His very dark blue eyes fixed unflinchingly on her own. A Dominant gaze …
She dragged her eyes down to her notebook. Closed it and slipped it back into her pocket.
“This is a standard part of your sexual repertoire?” She asked. “I know spanking isn’t even considered deviant, by many. But it sounds brutal and demeaning, to me.”
“There are evolutionary, physiological and healthy psychological bases for finding the activity arousing.” He said. “Some aficionados who consider themselves part of BDSM/Ds culture have divided spanking into discrete types and purposes.
“In my opinion, however, it’s all a continuum. Like our books, everything overlaps. To me, there are only two types of spanking: erotic and disciplinary. Erotic spanking enhances sexual experience. Promotes intimacy.”
He noted the confusion and frustration that she didn’t bother to hide. “You used that word before, ‘intimacy.’ It’s like you’re telling me sugar is a health food. Make me understand,” she said.
“You can only understand through experience,” he said. “Otherwise, it’s just … anecdote. To uncover the real story, you’d have to be my Companion.”
“Because you want to spank me?” she asked, eyes narrowed, a challenge in her voice. Just try it .
“Oh, Avia,” he leaned forward, smiling gently, his voice warm, one hand on the arm of her chair. “Your pupils blew wide open when I was talking about it. Of course I’m going to spank you.”
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