Stepping from the Lincoln Town Car, Halstead strode up the walk and knocked on the door. As he waited for a response, he stepped back to examine the house. It was flat, with many windows; a 1950’s version of modern.

       The doorknob rattled and the door swung inward a few inches. A tall, thin man, pale and tentative, said, “Yes?” as if it were a question.

       “Is your wife at home?”

       The man gave no sign of recognizing Halstead, which was no surprise. As Halstead recalled, the man had barely glanced at him across the gaming table the entire evening.

       “Oh, uh, yes, yes she is.” The man stepped back from the door and called over his shoulder, “Roselyn?”

       A faint cry in a woman’s tones came to them.

       “Someone here to see you.”

       And, apparently incurious, the man turned and left the door ajar, walking back into a room and falling down upon a recliner, to stare at a burbling television. It showed, Halstead noted, a dyspeptic-looking minister shouting red-faced at a rapturous congregation of hundreds.

       She hesitated when she saw who it was calling for her, the hitch in her otherwise gliding step almost enough to make her stumble. Her expectant, welcoming smile faltered and a guarded look entered her gaze.

       He waited impassively, just outside the door.

       They’d first seen each other the evening before, and she had responded to Halstead immediately. The party at one of Halstead’s club did not usually invite outsiders, but this had been a mixer intended to scout potential recruits, and so the casino and one of the restaurants had been open to invited nonmembers.

       She had the presence of mind to say, “Please, come in.”

       He stepped into the home, at once noting the scents of lemon cleanser and a redolence of garlic and onions from cooking under the stronger, sharper scent of her perfume. “I’m here for you,” he said.

       Her look shifted again.

       He saw a tremor stitch through her. A blush touched her face and the top of her chest, visible past the unbuttoned top of her stained workaday blouse.

       She had zeroed in on Halstead last night from across a crowded room, and had come to stand near him, watching and especially listening. A masterful voice, commanding and calm, did that to the better submissives, Halstead knew. And then he’d gotten his chance, and had played it well.

       Something in their postures must have attracted the husband’s attention. He sighed melodramatically, stood, and slouched across the room. “What’s goin’ on, Ro?” he asked, still keeping one eye on his precious televangelist.

       She said nothing.                                     

       Halstead said, “I’m here to collect your wife.” To her, he said, “Pack one bag. You have five minutes.”

       “Uh, what’re you talkin’ about?” The man looked fully at Halstead for the first time and stood a little taller. “Honey, what’s he mean?” To Halstead he said, “She’s not going anywhere.”

       “But she is.” Halstead looked at her, seeing her shudder this time. “Go,” he said, and his voice commanded her. She left them in a fast walk, going deeper into the house.

       “What the hell...?” The husband seemed nonplussed. “I’m not sure what’s going on here, but—”

       “Do you remember last evening?”

       The man blinked, then gulped. A look of realization gilded him. “You’re...”

       “James Halstead.” When this produced no further recognition in the man, he added, “We played Chemin-de-fer.”

       “Oh.” The man clearly remembered, now. “But that was just—”

       “You wagered your wife on our final cards.”

       “But that wasn’t serious.”

       “A wager in that club is always taken seriously.”

       The man took a step back just as wifey appeared, carrying an overnight bag and wearing a different, better set of clothes. She looked collected but nervous. Her hair had been brushed. Her fear was held in check, but visible. So was her eagerness.

       Glancing at her, the husband said, “You’re not going with him, are you?”

       “But she is. You wagered her, and lost.”

       “As a joke. It was just good fun. Everyone was drunk and joking around, having a good time, and I thought you were messing around when you—”

       “Sir. I do not joke about wagers. Not everyone was drunk, and I certainly meant what I said.”

       “She’s not even mine to bet, for God’s sake.”

       Halstead had not wanted to bother with this. He had expected protestations from the husband, but had planned simply to walk out with her. Let the twit say what he would.

       To the woman he said, “Get into the car.”

       She took a step toward the door, head lowered, and her husband grabbed her by the arm. She simply stopped moving, retaining her posture and pose.

       Halstead said, very quietly, “Take your hands off my property.”

       “She’s her own property. She was never mine to bet.”

       “Is she not your wife?”

       “Yes, but she’s not my property.”

       “Not any longer, no.”

       “That’s ridiculous.”

       “There are both laws and religions that would argue with you.” Halstead again felt a wave of distaste. Debating such things with an obvious mundane disgusted him.

       He turned to leave, taking the woman’s arm himself to pull her along with him.

       The husband, his voice raising in volume and rising in tone, called, “I forbid you to take another step.”

       Halstead knew, from the tone, that the husband addressed the wife, but turned as if to question the order. As he did so, he pushed the woman ahead of him so she could walk to the car. He then gazed calmly until the husband looked away. “She is no longer yours.”

       “Ro, what are you doing? You’re my wife.”

       The husband actually bounced up and down on his feet as he cried out to her.

       She said nothing, and kept her head down; Halstead was thinking what an excellent learner she’d be. He watched her reach the car. The door popped open. She got in.

       Turning to the husband, he said, “Get yourself another one, and train her better.”

       “You can’t do this. It’s kidnapping. It’s no fair, it was a joke, I never meant—”

       Halstead slapped him, once. “Try to find some dignity,” he said, quietly, going to the car.

       As he slid into the passenger seat, Halstead said, “Airport,” and glanced around at the woman. She was sitting, meek and hunched, her seatbelt on, gazing at him from under her brows. Her hands were folded in her lap. Halstead smiled at her and said, “What’s your name?”

       “Roselyn,” she said.

       He slapped her and said, “No. You’re name is Bitch until I say otherwise.” He watched her blink away tears and work her way through the shock; he’d hit her hard. When she’d gathered herself again, he asked, “What’s your name, girl?”

       “Bitch.”

       He slapped her, harder still. “You will address me as sir, Bitch. Understand?” This time he’d given her no time to recuperate.

       She nodded, sniffled a little, and said, daring to look up at him, “Yes, sir.”

       He reached out to stroke her hair and was gratified when she leaned into it, rather than pulling away in fear. “You’ll be my good girl soon,” he said, and turned around to enjoy the rest of the ride to the airport in peace.

Black Russian Roulette

Before leaving the club for the evening, Halstead found himself tempted into a liaison with a club member’s wife. She’d been drugged by then, stripped, and put into a velvet sack with a few strategic holes. Standard initiation, he knew. In a padded closet somewhat larger than most closets, in the light of a single electric candle, and for a small fee considered a donation to the club’s expenses, one could do to such initiates what one wished, as long as one did not remove the velvet bag.

       Anonymity and the feel of velvet on accessible flesh; it was dubbed Black Russian Roulette.

       Infrared cameras displayed the action on TV screens scattered throughout the bars and lobbies.

       Halstead had always kept an eye on this particular woman. She was tall, with straight shoulders, and a proud carriage. In her mid forties, she seemed at least a decade younger, with pert if smallish breasts, a flat belly, and tight ass tucked up under by some combination of aerobics and yoga, if not surgery. Her eyes gleamed with a pretty energy and her lips, plump and peachy, radiated a sensuous enjoyment.

       He’d always wondered what it would be like to break and train the proud Mrs. Danbridge. It had been an idle thought, until that evening; she’d never agreed to become a full club member before.

       That her husband had nominated her, vouched for her, and obviously wanted her bagged, cast an interesting light on Halstead’s perception of their union. To use her, he decided, on the spur of the moment, might be both enjoyable and, later, useful; her husband was a contract attorney in Los Angeles, after all. His clients included celebrities who might one day be in the market, as Mr. William Garry had been earlier.

       The fee was waived by the master and donated to the club, as was traditional.

       “No condom necessary,” Halstead was told by the nervous, or eager, husband, as he handed over his fee and stepped into the closet. As it happened, he was the first, which pleased him.

       A stuffed hush, as the door closed, thudded away his breath for a moment. He let his eyes adjust to the single red light’s dim glow. Before him lay a dark shape, motionless. A soft snoring sound came from the velvet bag; she was sleeping off the dose she’d been given.

       Halstead got undressed, hanging his clothes on golden hooks and setting his shoes on a satin-cushioned settee. Approaching the bagged woman, he touched the underside of his scrotum, and let his fingertips slip up the length of his cock.

       It sprang to life, hard and hungry.

       Kneeling on the cushioned floor, he straddled the unconscious woman, feeling her body through the velvet. He arranged her, hefting and grunting, her dead weight working against him, until she lay on her back. He wished she’d wake up at least a bit.

       He took his hand and found her face, pressing a hand flat on her nose and mouth, pressing hard until, with a snort, she flailed inside the bag and came awake. Spluttering, she mumbled a few drug-addled syllables and settled back, breathing fast now.

       Smiling, Halstead let his hand slip from her face down along her body, stopping to squeeze her breasts through two holes placed in the bag for this reason. Her nipples were just discernible, and he leaned down to bite at them through the heavy cloth. He got lint on his tongue and spat it.

       Sliding his hand down more, he found the hole, larger and wider, that exposed her crotch. A scent of woman’s musk rose to him, and he slipped his cock into her. Stretching up, he began fucking her, hard, and let a hand slide into a breast hole.

       She moaned and fucked back, feebly, in a haze of confusion from the chemicals in her body, some of which would be encouraging her sexual responses.

       She did not resist when his hand, sliding up over the top of her breast, found the base of her throat. He caressed the sides for a moment, then squeezed her throat, gradually making his grip harder as he fucked her as deeply as possible.

       Her breath was cut off halfway through his harsh assault, and he held her as she bucked and fought for air.

       Her vaginal muscles squeezed hard in her panic, milking him, drawing his semen from deep within.

       He stiffened, shooting into her, even as he let her, finally, breathe. As she gasped, and as he squeezed more of himself into her greedy depths, he slapped at her velvet covered face, once, twice, three times.       

       Collapsing onto her, he whispered, “Thank you, Eve,” into her ear, then kissed her mouth through the velvet, nearly inciting more panic.

       Pushing up from her, he used the provided towel, then got dressed and made way for the next fellow. As he left the club he noticed at least a dozen men in line; he’d gotten little Eve off to a good start, he hoped.