The melodic chimes of an ice cream van playing "Greensleeves" caught their notice. Mike gave her a boyish grin and caught her hand when she didn't expect it. Marcy felt it would be too churlish to pull away, so she obediently followed when he dragged her over for a treat.
Mike bought them two chocolate coated vanilla cones. It was over 65 degrees and a cloudless sunny day with a light breeze. A trail of ice cream dripped on to her finger, and Marcy licked faster.
He guided her to a park bench, where they both sat under an Ash Leaf maple tree. It was refreshing to see something other than common desert palms, Marcy mused. That was another good thing about Sunset Park – it had well established trees.
They sat together for some time without needing to speak, pleasantly enjoying a treat while watching Ziggy play. He was off in the distance, running with a couple of Labradors, one yellow colored, and one black. Marcy could hear the dogs barking happily.
A powerful impression of peace enveloped her while sitting with Mike.
Marcy felt it then, that rare inexplicable connection that could be found with another person. Was it real? Or like it had been with her ex, was it only the illusion and pretense of companionship? In her heart, she hoped that it was real. She could use more friends.
"I can't stand the silence you know," Mike said in an almost conversational tone after finishing his ice cream. "Since Barbara's been gone, I really miss hearing my wife breathe in bed beside me."
It took a moment for Marcy to respond to that intimate admission. The vision of a man being soothed by the sound of his wife's breathing was poignant. It was even sadder the way Mike had admitted to such a thing in that even tone of voice. She swallowed, hard. For a moment she had the ridiculous impulse to take him into her arms and comfort him like she would a child.
Marcy cleared her throat. "Well then," she said, trying to sound cheerful, "you should date."
"What a good idea," he said studying her appraisingly.
"Not me!"
"I've dated quite a few people and haven't found anyone that even came close to interesting me as much as you do."
"You don't even know me!"
"We can remedy that."
"That's very flattering but I'm absolutely not going to date you."
"Fine," he said equably, apparently unperturbed and completely accepting of her rejection. "Then we can just be friends."
She smiled at him. "Friends I can do. You seem like a nice guy, Mike, which is even more reason not to go out with you. I liked my ex-husband, too, and he was a lying, manipulative serial cheater that nailed anything that moved."
Mike sat up straight at that. "Seriously? What an asshole. That kind of unfaithfulness must have really hurt."
"I felt betrayed, but I'm over it," she said, unable to keep the bitter resentment from her voice. "I never suspected, even though many of our friends knew. I was young and stupid and in love, I guess. I had the crazy idea that he loved me too, because he married me. Let's just say I have trust issues with men for good reason. I just don’t want to make the same mistakes again."
"Okay," Mike said. His face was impassive, but his voice was sympathetic. He looked like he was going to say something else for a moment, but he must have thought better of it because he didn't.
"You can believe that I had a ton of blood tests, just to make sure," she added. "Who knows who Trent slept with? But he must have always used condoms because I never got an STD. Lucky me."
"I'm really glad that you dodged that bullet."
Mike began to talk to her about what André Chevalier did for a living. He explained that many of André's professional activities were sexual and highly confidential. André counseled and advised couples in relationship counseling. He also worked with rape and abuse victims, both male and female. It seemed that André often helped his customers in a 'hands on' way to assist them.
"Are you saying he has um… sex with his clients?" Marcy asked, swallowing the last bit of her ice cream cone. Mike had finished his long before.
"Yes. Not always, but sometimes, sure."
The thought floored Marcy. Why did everything seem to come back to sex? Particularly when she preferred to avoid the subject?
18. Andre's Profession
"Just to be clear," Marcy said, her head spinning. "A couple comes in for help in the bedroom, and Mr. Chevalier has sex with them? Like, what? A demonstration or something?"
"Sometimes. It's different for everyone I suppose. He records everything, too, so the couple can take a DVD home."
"No! Really?"
"True story."
Marcy laughed out loud, more from shock than from amusement. It was difficult to reconcile the André she had met with the peculiar therapeutic activities he engaged in. "Does he have sex with men and women both? Is he bi?"
Mike blinked at that. His brows drew down as he considered her question. "André is definitely heterosexual," he said shaking his head. "But I suspect that if necessary he would cheerfully have sex with a male client. I can't see a person's gender making the slightest difference to André."
Stunned, Marcy opened her mouth to speak. When she could think of nothing to say, she shut it again.
Mike threw his hands in the air. "You have to understand. André is unique. He's a genius when it comes to sex, love and human nature. Solving the client's problem is his priority. He doesn’t have a single fixed idea on how healing takes place. I've never met such a lateral thinker, I swear."
"Okay," she said. "André works with men and women, helping them with sexual issues. What does any of this have to do with me?"
Mike turned toward her, meeting her eyes. "Marcy, you will probably see some things that you will think are peculiar. Do you know anything about BDSM?"
"You mean like dungeons, whips and fetishes?"
Mike tilted his head at her, his lips tugging up in a half-smile. "That's close enough for now. I brought a booklet you should read – it's in my car. You really do need to get educated on the subject. The thing is that André deals with many people who desire training in that area, either as a submissive or a Dominant. He works with all sorts, but his specialty is women."
Mike smiled and shook his head. "That man knows everything there is to know about a woman - how to find their secret fantasies that they didn't even know they had, and how to fulfill them. André charges big money and guarantees satisfaction with whatever sexual issue that the client wants to solve. He gives 100% refund if they are unhappy with his services. Do you imagine that any of this will bother you?"
Marcy crossed her legs and reflected on this new and very interesting information. Something wrong with your marriage? Relationship problems could always trace back to sex or money - at least that's what she had read. Consequently tons of people must have problems in bed.
Marcy had been one of them. She was thirty-four years old and had never had an orgasm. Sex was the big mystery.
From the first time she had made love with Trent she felt an array of feelings that were far removed from pleasure: Confusion, insecurity, and a frustrating sense of non-completion. True, Trent was an asshole. Maybe he was just a crappy lover. Yet some of it was her fault surely?
She just couldn't seem to "let go" and find pleasure in making love. She was all up in her head. Marcy wondered if some unknown childhood incident had screwed her up so that she couldn't enjoy the sexual act like other 'normal' women.
"What are you thinking?" Mike asked.
Marcy gave him an ambiguous shrug. There was no way in hell that she was going to tell Mike what she was thinking. Maybe she would get up her nerve and ask André about it sometime.
André Chevalier was an amazing person and a man of the world. Her questions wouldn't shock him. Just like Mike Thompson, Marcy felt comfortable talking with André. Unlike Mike, it seemed that the subject of sex just might, sometime, be an acceptable topic to chat about with André.
"Let me tell you how this applies to you," Mike said. "Sometimes André has part
ies. A submissive man or woman may be naked or even chained at the Master or Mistress's feet. You will not be part of the scene, but you'll be serving drinks or cleaning or preparing equipment perhaps. I honestly don’t know what André will get you to do. I think his staff shares various duties. Does any of this make you squeamish?"
Marcy considered the matter, imagining kinky sexual activities. "No, I don’t think so, as long as I don’t have to participate," she said. "I'm not a prude. Consenting adults should be able to do what they like, I think."
A blue Frisbee landed nearby, and a barking German Shepherd grabbed it up in its teeth. The Shepherd ran back toward a young man who was screaming "Atta boy!" at the top of his lungs and clapping joyously. The dog dropped the Frisbee at the feet of his master, and Marcy smiled, distracted for just a moment.
Mike shifted on the park bench, turning toward her. "How do you feel about gay or lesbian sex?"
"Good luck to them. I think love is a very good thing in any form."
Mike gave her a big grin, arched an eyebrow, and patted her hand that was resting on her thigh. "Do you see why I like you?" he asked. "Seriously, what is not to like about you, Marcy Paget?"
His comment seemed so heartfelt that Marcy just stared at him with an open mouth, unable to respond. She didn't even try to move her hand away, when usually she avoided being touched. A ridiculous warm glow filled her as a result of Mike's earnest praise.
Marcy was a pleaser, she knew that about herself. She liked the people around her to be happy. It was in her nature to avoid fights.
Was Mike Thompson, like her ex, being charming in order to get something? Because Trent sure knew how to do that. What did the man want exactly anyway? To sleep with her? Why? She was broke, in debt, and divorced with a seven year old daughter. Marcy was not exactly a good catch.
Her douchebag ex informed her during their divorce that she was a "fat, frigid, ugly cow" that "no man would want anyway." Prick.
"Okay," Mike said when she made no response. "I'm going to give you the booklet to read. Study it and if you have any questions just ask me. I've put my phone number on it."
Mike whistled for Ziggy, who instantly galloped back to him, furiously wagging his tail. On the way back to the car Marcy spotted a little blue and green hummingbird, which she took as a good omen. Back at her condo, Mike replaced the battery in her Neon and cleaned the plugs. When Marcy turned over the ignition, her little car started up immediately.
The sun had lowered on the horizon. In a few hours it would be time to pick Katie and Sam up from school. Now she could drive her car to pick them up if she wanted.
A florist truck arrived and a man got out with a delivery of flowers. Marcy opened the card. It said: 'Dear Katy, get well soon. Love Dad.'
Stunned, Marcy exploded. "This isn't even in Trent's handwriting and Katie's name is spelled wrong!"
"Son of a bitch," Mike bit out in a snarl.
"Obviously Trent got his secretary to arrange the whole thing, just to get me off his back," she growled. "Now he won’t even bother to call her." She fumed for a moment. "I'm going to kill him." Visions of her taking an axe to her ex loomed in her mind once more.
A viciously muttered curse from Mike caught her attention. Marcy turned to study him.
Mike's angry scowl and bright narrowed eyes said it all. They communicated everything that he was feeling: agreement with her sentiment to murder; concern for Katie; contempt and absolute fury toward her ex-husband.
An angry man usually frightened Marcy, or made her introvert and back off. As bizarre as it seemed, Mike's flaring rage on Katie's behalf was strangely soothing. In fact, it raised Marcy's spirits.
"Kill him?" Mike echoed gruffly. "As a close friend of yours, Marcy, I'd be more than happy to help."
19. Live Feed
Marcy dreamed of her mother again. This time while her mom had still been trying to communicate to her, she seemed less anxious. The nods her mother gave her seemed to be approving. Marcy still had no idea what the dream meant or what her mother was trying to tell her. Was her mom watching over her?
It was a comforting thought.
Meanwhile Marcy loved her new job. For a start, she was so grateful to be working school hours, and making more money. How lucky was she?
Wearing a black dress with a white apron for a uniform, Marcy did whatever she was told by Gustave, her boss. Sometimes she helped out in the kitchen, or she cheerfully cleaned and stripped beds or cleaned bathrooms. She wore disposable gloves while taking care of all Mr. Chevalier's weird sexual toys and merrily polished the St. Andrew's cross, the spanking bench and numerous other interesting or torturous devices.
Could anything bother her? Hell no! Not when she had it 'made in the shade' as she did now.
Because she wore a uniform and was obviously part of Mr. Chevalier's staff, she was unremarkable and had been placed well outside the whole BDSM culture, yet able to look in. In truth, she found the whole subject rather fascinating.
From what she had seen, which admittedly wasn't much, it wasn't scary because it was all consensual. It all seemed to her like a great big sex game being played in real life with others, kind of like a fantasy role play maybe.
She had discovered that André was a "Dominant" – which was also called a "Dom" or sometimes a "Top" or a "Master." The Dominant "Master" or "Mistress" was in control of a "submissive" or "sub."
Most days, around noon she was sent to dust, vacuum and empty the bin of the security room while the staff took lunch. This room was about the size of a generous master bedroom. It was stark and painted white, with a complex array of monitors and screens that kept track of everything that went on in André's penthouse, the staff level (one floor down) and his dungeon areas in the basement.
It was only a few days into the third week of her employment that Marcy found she was alone with all the screens left on. Utterly captivated, she sat down in the comfortable black leather chair, and watched her first scene involving Dominance and submission.
Marcy had watched porn before, so that was nothing new. Trent had introduced it to her from the moment they had been married. Unfortunately, the sex movies he bought seemed unnatural and unreal. Every woman in them gave the impression that they were less of a person than the men. That they were being used while being treated only with contempt.
There was a lack of respect that just felt wrong. Consequently Marcy had never really enjoyed them.
This scene was being played on all eight screens, from eight different points in the room. As she watched a woman walked in, and to Marcy's shock and surprise, André Chevalier came after her.
Marcy shifted slightly in her chair, her pulse pounding in her ears. Holy shit, she thought. What am I doing? Should I be doing this?
But it didn't matter for Marcy could not pull her eyes away. Her curiosity was overwhelming. André was here with another man's wife. Clearly this was going to be one of the famous sexual lessons that he gave to paying couples. She didn't plan to leave this room until she saw what actually went on, here in her workplace.
André as ever, was elegantly dressed. His three piece suit that was no doubt Armani. The man always looked so powerful, contained and self-assured. Trent, her ex, was like that, too – but his confidence was built on self-deluded fantasy.
André was the real deal.
Marcy recognized the woman from the Bellagio where she and her husband had first meet André. Jennifer Whittington and her husband Charles were on vacation in Las Vegas. In the last week they had been coming daily to André's penthouse, presumably to have relationship counseling. Marcy had served them lunch a few times.
The Whittington's had a Boston accent, and the kind of sophisticated confidence and address that came from old money. About five foot three, blonde with hazel eyes; Jennifer Whittington was an attractive woman. She appeared to be perhaps in her mid-forties. Her body had thickened, as middle-age women's bodies so often did.
At the casino Jennifer Whittington
had seemed elegant, rich and in control.
Here she trembled like a frightened child.
"Oui, stand right there, Jennifer, bon," André said in a low, seductive voice when the woman had moved to the middle of the room. The woman seemed very small next to him, for he was a great deal taller than she was. "I see that you wore no jewelry, as I requested. It is very well, ma petite." His knuckles grazed gently down her cheek and jaw line approvingly.
The woman looked uncertain, tense and panicked, yet she seemed to relax at André's heavy praise and his touch. Her dark blonde hair had golden highlights, and the soft wavy style was mature yet glamorous. Her cream blouse was sheer silk, her tan skirt tailored.
"You will call me, Sir."
"Yes… Sir," she said tentatively.
"We have discussed this at length, yet I wish for you to tell me once again why we are here," André said.
The woman licked her lips. "I am submissive and you are going to teach me submission."
"You must call me, Sir," he reminded her.
"Oh," she said quickly, "Sorry, yes, Sir."
He gave her an approving smile. "You are doing well, ma petite," he assured her. "We were discussing submission. Pardon, I am devastated to have to correct you, but I do not teach you submission. Non. You are what you are. I have no wish to change who and what you are. My intention is to free you, ma petite. I am here to help you understand exactly what it is to be submissive."
There was a long silent moment while Jennifer processed that. When understanding lit her eyes, André nodded appreciatively. "Just so," he said. "Can you remember the other reason that we are here?"
She blushed. "You're going to help me discover my sexuality."
"Very good," André replied and his tone was soothing, and gentle, perhaps as someone might speak when calming a skittish horse.
"I have five rules for you to remember, Jennifer. First, you must call me, Sir. Two, you will speak only when spoken to. If you have a question you may ask me if you are allowed to speak. Three, when I give you an order, you must do exactly as I say."