Vow of Silence

Roxy
Harte

Chronicles of Surrender, Book 6

Can a man escape Karma? George
Kirkpatrick, former renowned psychiatrist, now Dominant Dr. Psycho, reels from
the loss of his friend and boss, Garrett Lawrence, owner of Lewd Larry’s Fetish
Fantasy Nightclub. Finding respite in the arms of a vanilla woman, George
believes he and the nightclub might actually survive the tragedy…until a female
from his past returns.

Lin Kuan, renowned metal sculptor,
met George under false circumstances. She believed she was dating a
psychiatrist, not a sadist. Too late she discovers she’s in love…and determines
to change him.

Gigi Marconi seeks penance in pain.
The vow she made as a child could destroy her before she has a chance to face
the truth. Or the love of the man she once betrayed could be her salvation.

Inside Scoop:
This book
contains violent sexual interactions, consensual gang rape, bukake and electric
play in a BDSM context.

An Exotika®
contemporary erotica
story from
Ellora’s Cave

“Despair has its own calms.”

Bram Stoker,
Dracula

“The quality of mercy is not strain’d, It droppeth as the
gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath. It is twice blest, It blesseth
him that gives, and him that takes.”

William Shakespeare,
The Merchant of Venice

George

The bathroom air seems cool against my damp flesh as I
prepare for my day. Standing naked in front of the vanity, water cascading into
the sink, I shave. At the same time I half pay attention to the news playing on
the wall-mounted television and scan the appointment book lying open on the
black marble countertop.

5:00 p.m. Sharon Olivia Von Buren

Initial call notes—Client is interested in exploring how
pain affects her pleasure.

“Gee, not vague or anything.” I scrunch my face to shave my
upper lip, pushing aside the slight irritation caused by Sharon Olivia Von
Buren’s incomplete profile. Other than her name, I know nothing about her. I
don’t doubt her name. It is company policy to log in client’s names as
presented on their photo identification, usually a driver’s license but
sometimes, for our international guests, their passports. If her credentials
don’t match the name given when the appointment was booked or if the name and
ID clash, she doesn’t pass the gatekeeper.

I need to have a talk with the new receptionist responsible
for logging this appointment. Reading her notes, I am left with no idea what
type of scene I am expected to prepare, when usually I am inundated with too
many details. Of course too many instructions are equally frustrating. There is
little chance of pleasing a client who has the perfect fantasy worked out in
their head.

It is less the receptionist’s fault than my own.

Six months ago I inherited Lewd Larry’s, a fetish fantasy
nightclub and BDSM play place. Its original owner, Garrett Lawrence, built the
very successful business from nothing.
I can’t believe he is gone.
When
a lawyer showed up and explained he’d died I didn’t believe it. It only got
worse from there. Supposedly Celia and Thomas, his two lovers who were integral
to the workings of the club, were also dead. I know Thomas’ beach house
exploded, the news coverage was quite extensive, a gas main leak, but there
were no bodies recovered. And although there was a brief community memorial
service, my mind refuses to accept it.

Maybe I could if I didn’t know as much as I did about
Thomas. He was a spy or a mercenary. My only certainty was that he was a very
dangerous man. It seems a little too convenient to me that he, Garrett and the
third of their ménage, Celia, have literally fallen off the face of the Earth.
I would have an easier time believing they have become part of a witness
protection program. Or maybe that is only my grief trying to console me.

Stranger still, Thomas’ twin didn’t attend the funeral.
Inquiries led nowhere. It is as if the man never existed. I met Thomas’ twin. I
spent a month bringing him back from death’s door—and now he too has vanished
into thin air?

Every day, I think they might walk through the front doors…

The lawyer provided ample documentation concerning the
execution of Garrett’s estate and, as requested, I stepped in to head
operations at Lewd Larry’s, but I feel I’m not doing a very good job of it. Our
managing styles are vastly different.

Once upon a time, years ago, in what now seems like a
different life, I was a successful psychiatrist. As a result I see too deeply
into people. I expect more from some and less from others based purely on what
I see as their mental and emotional stability. I’m afraid I’ll never fill
Garrett’s shoes. He was so beloved by everyone in the BDSM and LGBT
communities. He was a leader, an activist, a teacher. He was the man I will
never be.

Lately I dread going into the office, when once Lewd Larry’s
was my refuge, my solace.

Beside me, my cellphone vibrates and I see on the caller ID that
it is Lin Kuan, a woman I have dated randomly over the last year but haven’t
seen in months. I consider not answering. She is too beautiful and I am too
weak against her charms. Any meeting between us can only end badly, because Lin
is one hundred percent vanilla.

I press the mute button on the remote, silencing the
television, and turn off the water before answering. “Lin, what a wonderful
surprise!”

She giggles, the sound light and refreshing, making me
wonder why I stubbornly haven’t called her recently.

“You knew it was me, George Kirkpatrick?”

She is so formal. I’d forgotten this quirkiness that makes
her so unique. “Caller ID, love,” I explain as I rub a towel over my face.

“Oh yes, of course. I should have realized that.”

I hear in her voice a bit of embarrassment and without being
able to see her, know that she has ducked her head, her long black hair
curtaining her face, hiding her as she lifts her fingers to her mouth to play
with her bottom lip. It is a nervous habit I tried to break on our first few
dates to no avail. Despite having been in our country off and on for nearly two
decades, she is still very shy, very demure, and every bit her rural Chinese
mother’s obedient daughter. Knowing how much courage it took for her to make
this call, I endeavor to make it easier on her.

“Is this a good time, George? Or should I call back later?”

I love her submissive nature, and once I was naïve enough to
believe submission was the single most important aspect of my lifestyle. It
isn’t. I have learned there are very fine lines that we straddle in safe, sane,
consensual relationships, and although her acquiescent temperament appears
perfect, it is a fragile thing, and when forced into a corner, she can be both
stubborn and ferocious. Hence, we have yet to take our relationship to the next
level. She refuses even to acknowledge my kinky life.

Ah, I remember now why I haven’t called. When we first met,
I was introduced as Dr. George Kirkpatrick, and although I am a licensed
physician of psychiatry, I am not currently practicing. Eventually we discussed
that fact, and she couldn’t accept that I am a professional Dominant at a
fetish fantasy nightclub. When she issued an ultimatum that I return to a more
respectable psychiatry practice and give up my current nefarious occupation if
I wished to continue a relationship with her—I ran. Cowardly, perhaps, but at
the time I didn’t need that type of drama in my life.

I still think about her and wish things could have been
different. On our last date, she admitted to being curious about what I did for
a living and how my being a sadist would affect more intimate relations between
us. Curiosity is a wonderful place to start—but I left future contact up to
her—and she’s calling only now.

“Now is fine. It’s lovely hearing your voice, Lin. I’m glad
you called.”
That isn’t a complete lie.
“How have you been?”

“Oh I am fine, George. And you? Have you been well?”

“I am…well.” I sigh, wishing she would not always be so
formal, so restrained. It is hard to believe we have been lovers.

The image floats into my mind of her kneeling over me, her
nakedness delicate, her touch expert. The last time we were together, she
massaged me with warmed sesame seed oil. We didn’t have sex, at least not
intercourse in the traditional sense, but we were both nude and she performed a
hand job that was as surprising as it was sublime. I was too much of a
gentleman to push for more…and she is so shy.

Glancing into the mirror, I watch the reflected image of my
penis rising, obviously also remembering the sweetness of her fingers. I touch
myself, pushing my erection down, promising soon, hopefully very soon, I will
be treated to the gift of Lin’s touch again.

“I would actually like to ask you something, George. I
apologize for being so bold, however, I would like to ask you to accompany me
somewhere.”

She pauses and it takes a moment for me to realize that she
is awaiting some form of positive affirmation before she reveals details. “Yes,
Lin? Please go on.”

“It’s a formal dinner at the Asian Museum of Art. I will be
honored for winning an international contest when they reveal the metal series
I created. The sculptures will be shipped to Hong Kong, London, Melbourne and
Zurich but one will remain here in San Francisco on permanent display.”

She pauses again and I still do not know when the event is,
leaving me hoping that it isn’t tonight because I am working tonight.
“Congratulations, Lin, that is wonderful. When is the dinner?”

“Oh yes, it is Thursday the twenty-fourth of this month, at
7 p.m.”

I laugh, smiling at my reflection, thinking that only Lin
would give a prospective date three weeks’ warning. Glancing at the television,
I read the time on the screen. Running late, I hurry to my walk-in closet.

“I’d be honored to escort you, Lin,” I sort through shirts
quickly, “but do I have to wait three weeks to see you? Or could I interest you
in accompanying me to dinner tomorrow evening?”

* * * * *

I am humming as I step outside my climate-controlled home,
happy because I get to see Lin tomorrow. Of course I will have to shuffle
around the schedule a bit and will inconvenience several employees I will
require to work overtime, but seeing her was so tempting.

The brilliant autumn day is unseasonably hot. The wind hitting
my face feels like a hairdryer turned to its highest setting—a slap of reality.
My need for punctuality makes me trot quickly toward the car. I hope the silk
shirt I’m wearing doesn’t soak completely through with perspiration, and I
consider racing back inside for another shirt.

Fortunately, traffic is kind and I make it across town in
record time.

The building isn’t super chilled but the difference in heat
is appreciable as I pass through the wide double doors.

The receptionist’s greeting is one of relief. “Thank God. I
was worried.”

I grimace, realizing I should have called. Ever since we
received word about Garrett, Thomas and Celia, we’ve all been on edge and
making her worry was unnecessary.

“Sorry. I should have called.” I rush by, not slowing to
chat but asking, “Is our guest here?”

“Yes, she was early.”

I keep walking, looking down at my wristwatch. “How early?”

She raises her voice a little as the distance grows between
us. “A half hour.”

I let out a frustrated breath, closing my eyes after seeing
I am fifteen minutes late. I quicken my pace through the large, empty space
which in a few short hours will be filled with laughing, dancing clients. Lewd
Larry’s is the party place for the young and wealthy, especially the young and
famous. The nightclub has something for everyone, even for those not into
fetish, at least this lower level.

I push the up button on the elevator. I make a face, hating
that my client has been waiting so long. Across the room the receptionist
laughs and yells, “I assured her that you are worth the wait.”

The elevator doors open and I rush in, not that my speed
matters now. The all-glass elevator ascends or descends at only one speed—slow.
The soothing classical music filling the small space creates the illusion the
lift is moving even slower than it is, if that is possible. When the car stops
on the second floor, not the fourth, I am terse and agitated. Worse, I am
greeted at the opening doors by Joel Winston, my security leader. My day just
gets better and better.

We’ve both been here since the beginning, since before Lewd
Larry’s Fetish Fantasy Nightclub was world renowned. We were both here during
the planning stages when the four-story abandoned warehouse near the Artist
District was considered a condemnable nuisance. Now there are four levels—the
first floor, public; the second, The Dungeon, a co-mingling level; the third,
The Oasis, a fetish area for members only; and the fourth, The Attic, a group
of distinctive private rooms where those who are willing to pay for it are able
to live out their wildest fantasies. And now Joel and I are partners in an
uneasy alliance to keep Lewd Larry’s afloat.

Joel Winston doesn’t have a kinky bone in his body. That’s
why Garrett hired him, and I guess that’s why I keep him.

“Anything new to report?” I ask as he joins me inside.

“No Sir.”

The ascent is filled with an uncomfortable silence. I’m not
used to my new role, and I fear I may never grow into it. The elevator stops
again—at the third floor—and Dave Forrest steps in. He is our legal liaison and
until I have time to find a business manager he is filling that role as well,
although he’s stressed repeatedly that he isn’t comfortable in the position. I
really need to start interviews soon.

“Have you given any thought to when you will begin making
the requested changes?” Dave asks.

The requested changes.
His question makes me sigh
heavily because I’ve been avoiding the issue. Part of the transfer of ownership
of Lewd Larry’s included instructions that the name be changed—more specifically,
that the very essence of Lewd’s be changed to reflect my personality instead of
Garrett’s. As it is, Lewd’s expresses a fun, cabaret feel, more big music and
Humphrey Bogart than modern. At a meeting between Joel, Dave, myself and two of
our lead Dominants, Morgana and Farris, Morgana expressed a desire that the
place take on a dark, gothic edge to pull in a younger, hipper crowd.

I’m not young or hip. Maybe Garrett should have left the
place to her. She was like a daughter to him…and understandably she is feeling
hurt. Angry.

“Not a single thought. Maybe we should just run with
Morgana’s suggestion.”

“I wouldn’t.” Joel offers his opinion—even though it isn’t
his place to do so.

“How is Morgana today?” Dave asks.