Totlandia: Summer (13 page)

She’d made sure that Lily would be cared for all afternoon. One of the other Foursies mothers would be ferrying her to ballet. Bettina told her she’d swing by her house later, after an exhausting afternoon of “membership analysis”—a term vague enough that it scared the woman into suggesting that Lily spend the night.

Perfect.

She waited silently as Andy contemplated her offer. She hoped he didn’t notice she was shivering.

His brow lifted along with the smirk on his lips. “Your place, eh? Aren’t you afraid of what the neighbors will think?”

“They’ll never know. You see, you’ll be entering from the servant’s elevator.” She tossed him the security key, then got into her car.

She breathed a sigh of relief as he got into his car and followed her.

Don’t worry, you’re in control,
she told herself, although she knew that wasn’t anywhere near the truth. She knew the game. Once they crossed the threshold of her penthouse, she would no longer be in charge. From that moment on, she would be his submissive, and the only word coming from her lips that would matter would be whatever safety word she chose.

She’d already made up her mind that it would be
bliss.

Yes, she had high expectations for whatever he had in store for her.

He drove right on her tail.

She took it as a sign of good things to come.

The sex itself had been great—rough and dirty, from behind. After practically tearing her clothes off, Andy insisted that she leave on her pearls and her Loubies. “It’s as if I’m feckin’ me fifth-grade teacher,” he gasped in her ear.

“Afterward I’ll keep you after school for being a very bad boy,” she murmured back, coquettishly. She handed him a rubber.

He frowned.

“It’s Sex Ed 101,” she insisted.

He looked down at it. “Night Light Dy-No-Mites, eh? You’ve thought of everything.” He ripped the wrapper open with his teeth.

She didn’t want to show it, but she was relieved. They were one of Art’s, which he bought by the case. If Andy had refused to wear it, she’d have to end whatever this was they had, right here and now. She wasn’t on the pill, and heaven knows what he carried, and from whom.

Neither had plans for their sex play to end with the spent rubber, which he pulled off as soon as he dismounted. He gently rubbed his palm over her bum. Feeling her quiver beneath it, he murmured, “I know what you want.”

She didn’t say a word. Instead, she stood up and walked to the triple-door closet on the far end of the room, and opened it.

He laughed when he saw Art’s spanking bench. When he got up from the bed, she saw he was hard again.

Yes,
she thought,
this is going to be fun.

“Bliss,” she murmured. “You know, for safety’s sake.”

He shrugged. “If you say so.” Then he bent her over it and strapped her wrists down.

“Ah, so beautiful,” he murmured. He patted her ass then kissed it, gently.

She rewarded him by arching it as high as possible.

She couldn’t see what he was doing, but the sound of a loud click caused her to raise her head in shock.

“What was that?” she asked. But of course she already knew the answer—he’d taken a picture of her with his iPhone.

“This time, I want you to turn toward the camera and smile pretty.” To prove he meant business, he smacked her on the rump, causing her to yelp.

“Andy—don’t!” Her threat only earned her another swat, this time harder.

Pain surged through every nerve ending.

The realization that she was no longer in control scared her—and thrilled her, too.

She was still breathing heavily when he took her face in his hands and asked, “Tell me, love, are we now ready for our close-up?”

She closed her eyes but nodded nonetheless.

By the time he’d clicked the camera, her smile had finally stopped quivering.

He chuckled. “And now, ‘teacher,’ you’re about to see how bad I can really be.”

That afternoon, Bettina discovered that there was no better time for a little soul searching than when one was naked and bent over a spanking bench.

It took only eight whacks with her favorite birch-wood paddle for the thrill of sexual submission to lose its fascination.

It
frickin’ hurt like hell.

“Okay, now, stop,” she demanded.

He ignored her, then hit her twice more, once on each cheek.

“Andy, I mean it! Bliss!”

His next pop had her jumping out of her skin.

“Bliss! Bliss, Andy! It’s my safety word, remember?”

Apparently not, because he thwacked her again even harder.

“Bliss bliss bliss!” she screamed.

Smack. Whack. And then, after a pause that ensured she’d dread what came next, a snap—this time with the cat-o’-nine-tails, catching her on her right cheek.

“Ah, hell,” Bettina sobbed.
“Prince Vsevolod!”

She couldn’t see what happened next, but the sounds made her wince: her dog’s low, long growl before the pounce; Andy’s curses and cries; his scream for first aid because her “bloody mutt bit me on the wanker!”; the clatter of his footsteps on her highly polished parquet floor as he ran out of the room; and finally the slam of the front door.

Then silence.

She tried to lift one hand then the other, but neither would budge from their restraints. Damn it, she had to get off the bench before Art came home and found her there.

Heaven knows what he’d do to her.

Her cell phone was in her purse, on the floor and just out of reach.

She swung her leg off the bench and stretched it out, as far as it could go. Only when she pointed her toes could she touch the leather strap of her Fendi snakeskin clutch.

She cooed her thanks as the dog snatched the bag between his jaws.

But no, Prince Vsevolod wanted in on the game. When he walked away with it, she whistled and pleaded for him to return. He did, but then he pounced just out of reach. It must have been about twenty minutes before he got tired of the game and dropped it, just below her face.

Only a desperate woman or a contortionist with Cirque du Soleil could have bent herself into the position to clutch the strap with her big toe. Then, very slowly, she lifted her foot toward her hand. After some one-handed fumbling in the bag for yet another five minutes, she found the right pocket holding her iPhone.

Now the question was who to dial.

Her mother was a definite no. So were any of her Top Moms because none of them was above blackmail.

Last of all was Lorna.

That left just one other person.

Matt.

As much as she hated the thought of him knowing about her private life, she also knew he’d keep her secret.

Before he could say a word, she said, “I need you over here—
now.
You’re not to breathe a word of it to anyone as to where you’re going. I’ll instruct the doorman to give you the spare key. Come alone. Bring a sheet. When you enter, go to the master suite, but avert your eyes. You’ll have to…well, you’ll have to unbind me.” She coughed to keep from crying. “I’ve got to have your word that you won’t say anything afterward, either. This is all in the strictest confidence.”

“Dig it. Be right over.” Matt paused. “You know you’ll owe me big-time, right?”

She answered him with a sigh.

When he got there and saw her predicament, he’d have his answer.

Matt gave a low whistle. “That is quite a contraption.”

Now that Bettina was free from the bench and had the sheet wrapped around her, she felt calm enough to go on the offensive. “I presume you and Lorna are strictly missionary.”

Matt laughed. “I wouldn’t say that. But nothing this…elaborate.” He smacked the cat-o’-nine-tails against the bench. “I presume you’re never seeing this guy again, whoever he is.”

“Of course not!” What she didn’t add was that Prince Vsevolod had seen to that. It would only ensure a lifetime of sly jokes at her expense.

Something near her bed caught his eye. He walked over and stooped down over it. “Your guest left a memento. You may want to remove it before Art gets home.”

The spent condom.

He left her staring down at it.

She picked it up with a tissue. She should have flushed it down the toilet.

Instead, she slipped it into the drawer of her bedside table. It wasn’t the best memento, but now she had one, too.

It would remind her why she could never let anyone get the upper hand.

In the shower she was ashamed to find herself so damp down there. She scrubbed hard, as if it would remove the memory of the afternoon.

Tuesday, 25 June

11:22 a.m.

“Seriously, Bracknell Industries sold Foot Fetish?” Lorna looked up from her iPad, where she had been furiously typing an email to all the PHM&T mothers in which she expressed her deep disappointment in their lack of enthusiasm toward the club’s newest charity endeavor: Wednesday-night potluck dinners for the homeless.

Lorna had no doubt that Bettina was behind their reluctance. “It was a grand effort. But perhaps it’s now time to sail on, brave heart.”

Her patronizing tone made Lorna only more determined than ever to get the project off the ground.

Ally nodded. “I’m not at all surprised Foot Fetish was spun off, what with the way Ellis has been running it into the ground. The latest stock report shows that sales have fallen by almost twenty percent.” She grimaced. “I wonder what the new owners paid for it. Probably a fraction of what it’s really worth. Not only that, Bracknell had to settle with me and Barry first, in order to get the deal to go through.”

“Well, then I guess congratulations are in order!” Jillian plucked Amelia from her stroller and placed her in the sandbox. “Ha! If the new owners were smart, they’d ask you to consult. Everyone in your industry knows who made it a success in the first place.” To head off a squeal from Addison, she gave the little girl a tweak on the nose. “You’re next, sweet pea,” she cooed.

Ally shrugged. “In fact, Barry tells me they’ve already approached him—initially about coming up with a settlement for the lawsuit against Bracknell, but yes, a part-time consulting position was brought up. The terms were lucrative, too, but I turned it down.” She shrugged. “We’re building a pie empire, remember?” She slipped a sun hat on Zoe, who squealed, patted it on her head, and toddled over to a little boy who was sifting sand into pails with three other little tykes.

The boy’s mother and two other women were sitting on the other side of the sandbox. She waved at Ally. “So great to see you again,” the boy’s mother called out.

Ally motioned them over. The women nodded at each other, grabbed their children’s gear, and walked over.

Ally scooted over on the bench to make room for them. “Jillian and Lorna, this is Catherine Yang, Susannah Jeffers, and Gabriella Esposito.” She motioned toward her other friends. “And these are my friends Jillian Frederick and Lorna Connaught.”

Gabriella tilted her head in thought. “Connaught—as in ‘the infamous mommy club’ Connaught?”

Lorna winced. “Not me, but a relation. Trust me, I don’t bite.”

Relief was too keenly obvious in the women’s nervous laughter. “Good to know,” Catherine murmured. “We’ve heard some hair-raising stories about PHM&T.”

“Not from me,” Ally added quickly. “They say that the best way to move through post-traumatic stress disorder is to talk it out, but I’m just not there yet.”

Everyone laughed.

“You’re making me feel better that little Mikey and I didn’t make the cut last year,” Gabriella said.

Susannah giggled. “Then I win the prize. I’m not even a reject, since I never applied.”

“Why not?” Ally asked.

Susannah shrugged. “I’ve never met any mother of color who has made it in, so why bother?”

Lorna and Ally exchanged glances. “That’s an interesting point,” Jillian conceded. “Lorna and I are both members. Sadly, we can tell you firsthand that you’re right—and as far as we’re concerned, that’s wrong.”

“Perhaps it’s fixable,” Lorna murmured.

“Really? How so?” The look on Gabriella’s face showed that she was far from convinced about that.

Lorna was just about to answer her when a man, shoeless and in dirty duds, shuffled over. He scanned the women’s faces. Holding out his hand, he pleaded, “You wouldn’t happen to have a candy bar on you, eh?”

Catherine smiled. “You know us better than that, Opie. Healthy snacks only.” She opened her son’s diaper bag and pulled out a sandwich. “Here you go—chicken, no mayo. Just the way you like it,” she offered.

“Thank you, Mrs. Yang.” The man’s smile revealed two missing teeth.

Out of Gabriella’s bag came an apple. Susannah handed over a packet of Lunchables.

“Wow, my favorite,” Opie exclaimed. Awed with his stash, he turned to leave.

Lorna waved him over. “Here, take this granola bar, too. In fact, if you—and others you know who are hungry—are anywhere near Moscone Playground tomorrow around noon, I know some other mothers who may have some lunch items to share.”

Opie nodded enthusiastically and lumbered off.

Jillian stared at her as if she were crazy. “Why did you do that? Bettina will have a fit if that guy comes up to her!”

“I don’t think so. Not with all her legal concerns these days.” Lorna winked at Ally, who hid her grin under the flap of Zoe’s diaper bag.

What I wouldn’t do to be a fly on that picnic table,
she thought.

She pulled out six mini-bottles of water and passed them around. “Here, ladies, drink up. In fact, a toast—to all of Bettina Connaught Cross’s rejects. I’m proud to be the newest member of your club.”

Wednesday, 26 June

11:08 a.m.

From the Moscone Center locker room, the mantras of the Foursies in the yoga class could barely be heard above the squeals of Twosies on the soccer field outside. Kimberley had no problem slipping away from the other mothers, all of whom were taking advantage of this much-appreciated hour of free time by perusing their iPads for the most scurrilous articles in this week’s
People,
or watching for the umpteenth time the latest episode of
Scandal
.