Mason's Secret Agreement Pt. 01

PART ONE OF A FIVE-PART SERIES

JACQUELINE

I once read somewhere that Sigmund Freud liked the smell of his own ass. Mason Bryant, a Freudian psychologist's wet dream, certainly enjoys the smell of his.

I'm sitting in Mason's office because he wants to get in my pants. On the surface, I'm interviewing to become the new editor in chief of Chantel magazine, but we both know that's not the only reason I'm here; underneath the smile and handshake, Mason's on a mission to violate me. I know Mason Bryant. Sort of. I've run into him a few times at Constantine's, a BDSM club in Midtown Manhattan. He approached me to be his play partner, but he didn't want what normal guys wanted--for me to dominate him. No, he wanted to dominate me. Ridiculous. Who the hell does he think he is?

He's talking on his office phone now, the jackass. And on speaker, no less. He knows I'm sitting here in the middle of this one-on-one interview, answering all of his questions about my editing background, and yet he's going to cut me off, midsentence, to make some phone call to his goddamn sports bookie. Really, Mason? In the middle of our interview, you arrogant jerk. That couldn't wait? You have to do that right here, right now, even though I took a half day from work and came all the way to Midtown Manhattan to sit here and subject myself to your bullshit? If you don't give me this job, I swear to Christ, you'll never get within ten feet of me again.

Finally, he hangs up the goddamn phone. "So where were we? I think you were telling me about your background as an editor?"

"Yes, that's correct." I'm suddenly overcome with nerves. It's quite annoying, the way Mason's presence dominates a room. He seems to operate on a higher, more powerful frequency than I do. This 40-year-old is worth over a billion dollars. According to Affluence & Power magazine, he has houses in Manhattan, London, and Monte Carlo. He owns a 100-foot yacht he keeps moored in New York Harbor, a Canadian football team, a clothing line, an Internet social media company, and a dozen newspapers and magazines, including his most recent acquisition--the high fashion magazine Chantel, which I'm now interviewing for. Oh, and he's frustratingly handsome, too; he's six-foot-three and built like a marine, with a cleft chin and piercing, blue-gray eyes.

I have a brain fart, and can't seem to articulate my qualifications. Mason doesn't say anything. He just stares at me, like a therapist waiting to do psychoanalysis. He runs his hand through his wavy salt-and-pepper hair, scratches the stubble on his granite jaw, and grins. I lean back in my chair, arching my back so my cleavage is pushing out of my blouse, the edge of my lace bra catching his attention. He stares right at it, like the shameless pig he is. I flash him my long legs, briefly uncrossing them, waiting for him to sneak a peek up my skirt, which he does, surprise, surprise. The dynamic in the room immediately shifts a bit--there seems to be more space now--and I'm not as nervous.

"I got my master's from Northern Manhattan's School of Journalism," I continue. "I was a nontraditional student, I guess you could say. I didn't finish college until I was 28 because--"

Mason waves his hand. "Northern Manhattan's bullshit," he says. "Totally overrated. You would have been better off investing all that tuition money in real estate, instead of wasting it on a bunch of elitist professors who not only can't write, but who've never worked a day in their life. Northern Manhattan's a fucking joke." He leans back in his leather desk chair, stretches his arms behind his head. His biceps and chest ripple under his white dress shirt. "So, what else? Tell me about Cashmere & Silk? The magazine where you work? You've been there how long? Five years?"

"Yes, that's correct."

"And you've been the editor in chief for three?"

"It will be three years this December."

"Uh-huh." Mason picks up my resume, licks his finger, pages through it. "I have to say, I'm quite impressed with what you've done with the magazine. You've managed to increase its print circulation by nearly three hundred percent in three years, and that's saying something, being that print magazines are dying."

"The online readership has gone up tenfold since then, too," I tell him.

"I know, I see that. Impressive. Where is the magazine headquartered?"

"In Bay Ridge," I tell him.

"Brooklyn?"

"Yes. That's where I'm from, actually."

He nods. "Huh. That's interesting. I own a warehouse in Sunset Park, which is right next door. Do you think you could handle being editor in chief of a large, Manhattan-based fashion magazine such as Chantel? It's quite a bit different from your little garage operation in Brooklyn."

Garage operation? What an arrogant prick. "Yes," I tell him. "I think I could handle it."

"You think you could?"

"Well, what I mean is I know I could. I have some good ideas about how to increase readership and advertising revenue. For starters, Chantel has to go online fulltime. Forget the print magazine, it's a total liability..."

Mason shakes his head, leans forward in his chair. "Look, I'm going to be honest, Jackie--"

"Jacqueline," I tell him. "I prefer to be called Jacqueline."

"Okay, fine. Jacqueline. I'm going to be honest, Jacqueline. Chantel is high fashion. It's read by designers and runway model agencies all over the world. Like New York, Paris, Milan, and London--not Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. This worries me a little."

Arrogant. Fucking. Prick. I cross my legs tightly. He'll never get between them now. Ever. "So why am I here, then? You contacted me, remember? Do you care about the magazine, or do you just get off on playing games with women?"

Mason smiles. He obviously respects my assertiveness. "You're here because I want to hire you as the new editor in chief of Chantel. I also want to hire you for something else--and I think you know what I'm talking about--but we'll get to that later." He taps his fingers on the top of his desk. "I've been doing my background research on you, and I think, despite your lack of experience running a big international publication, you could do a decent job. You're young, hardworking, and your blue-collar roots give you a perspective that might ground the magazine and help it connect with a larger audience. That's if you really want the position. How badly do you want to run one of the world's most prestigious fashion magazines, Jacqueline?"

He's fucking with me, right? He has to be fucking with me. "I want to run the magazine," I tell him.

"How bad?"

"Bad."

"You don't sound very convincing." He crosses his arms. "What would you be willing to do to become the editor in chief of Chantel? To make two hundred and fifty thousand a year? To have the power to make or break the careers of the world's most talented fashion models? To hobnob with celebrities and cultural trend setters?"

I know what I'm willing to do. It's a no-brainer. For the first time I wonder, really wonder, what Mason Bryant likes. Will he want me on my knees? My back? In a sling? Bent over a bench or tied to an iron cross? Will he collar me? Brand me? Hook me on a leash? Will he want me to crawl for him? Will he parade me around Constantine's on my hands-and-knees like his good little doggy, his good little slut girl? Despite being a former dominatrix, submission is a natural defense mechanism with me; I've never felt truly comfortable dominating men. But it's not really submission in the true sense of the word. It's just a way for me to gain power from the bottom--the only way I seem to know how.

I sit up straight in my chair, arching my back, showing my cleavage again. I sweep my long brown hair over my shoulder, hike up my skirt to show off my long legs. "What would I be willing to do?" I ask, staring directly at him. It's getting warm in his office, so I start fanning myself with my hand.

"Yes."

"Whatever it takes."

Mason smiles. "I hoped as much." He takes a file out of the top drawer of his desk. "If you agree to take on the editor position here at Chantel and I hire you, everything is going to be done through a contract. A very detailed, and very thorough written agreement. I'll have my lawyers draw it up. If you can't afford representation, I will hire an attorney for you. I'm only going to need your services for one year."

"Just a year?" I ask. "That's it? What happens at the end of the year?"

"Who knows," Mason says. "A year's a long time. I don't know if I'll even keep the magazine longer than that. I don't particularly like Chantel. They're extra smug and pretentious, even by fashion magazine standards. Especially Amanda Bassett. In November of 2014, she wrote a review lambasting my new clothing line, Club 77, calling it, and I quote, 'overpriced and lacking originality.' Can you believe that shit? Who the fuck is Amanda Bassett to call anything overpriced, when she walks around with two hundred and fifty thousand dollars-worth of bling on her old, bony-ass body? Well, that's the last time she'll bad-mouth a hardworking entrepreneur like me."

"That's why you fired Amanda Bassett? Because she snubbed you in an article?"

"No," Mason says. "That's not the only reason. For starters, Chantel has been losing readership for years. Advertising sales are way down. So, when I acquired the magazine last month at a New York auction, the only logical thing to do was to fire Amanda Bassett. At least that was the official reason I gave the press."

"What was the unofficial reason?"

"Because she fucked with me," Mason says, cracking his knuckles. His hands are strong and handsome. I suddenly picture myself tied up to his coat rack in my underwear, my wrists bound above my head, my long, chestnut-brown hair hanging in my face. Mason is standing over me, telling me I'm his slave, that he owns me. He rips open my lace bra and starts sucking my breasts, swirling his tongue around my nipples, getting them hard and erect. He runs a hand up the inside of my thighs, yanks down my panties and slides two fingers inside me. I moan as he enters me, my breath coming in short, digging gasps, and I'm about to come all over his hand when he stops abruptly and smacks me hard across the face. Thank you, Mason, I say to him.

I ask Mason how long Amanda Bassett had been the editor of Chantel.

"Thirty-one years," Mason says. "She became the editor when I was, let's see... nine years old. You'd think, after all that time, she'd be a little more prudent, a little wiser with her criticism. But not that old hag. Do you know what she said to me when I ran into her at the 2015 New York City Gala, when I asked her about her review of Club 77? You know what she said?"

I nod. "No. What did she say?"

"She said her review was kind," Mason says, lolling his head as if he has a cramp in his neck. "She said, and I quote, 'Your new clothing line is body-shaming. You should be glad I went easy on you with my review.' Fucking body-shaming. Where the fuck does this bitch get off?"

"I don't know."

"Yeah, well, I let her know, very professionally, that she would regret saying that. I told her that her failing magazine was history. That I was going to buy it, and when I did, she was finished. Her and everyone on her staff. I told her I was going to fire them all. She thought I was full of shit. Now look who's laughing." Mason pulls a necktie out of his desk and begins putting it on, his fingers tan against the white collar of his crisp dress shirt. He has a perfect knot in seconds. "I have a meeting with the Midtown Community Board this afternoon. The mayor might be there. How do I look?"

I give him a once-over. He looks incredible, which annoys the shit out of me. It's his eyes--no, his five o' clock shadow on his rugged jaw, that does it for me. I can smell his cologne, and although I can't place it, it suits him. "You look nice," I tell him.

"Thank you." He fixes the gold cufflinks on his sleeves. "I want to open an adult club on West 26th, to compete with Constantine's. Why should Constantine's have the monopoly on the BDSM scene in Midtown Manhattan, you know? Anyway, the community board is supposedly up-in-arms about it, the goddamn prudes. Now I have to go down there and hold a few hands. Shit. Dammit. I don't believe it."

"What? What's wrong?"

"I was supposed to meet with Richie Preston this afternoon. About starting construction on my roof deck. Fuck." He picks up his desk phone, punches a button. "Carol, call Richie Preston and cancel. I forgot I had the meeting with the community board. Tell him I'm sorry, that I'll buy him a case of Belgian beer. Ask him to reschedule for next week. Okay? Thanks a bunch."

Mason starts tapping his finger on the top of his desk again. He's suddenly deep in thought. There's an uncomfortable silence, although I think I'm the only one who is uncomfortable. "Should I come back?" I ask him.

He's only half-paying attention to me. "What's that?"

"Should I come back another time? Should we finish this interview later?"

"No," Mason says. "No. Let's take care of this now." He goes into his folder and pulls out a piece of paper. "Here, sign this. Don't worry, it's not the actual pre-employment contract. It's just a letter that says you're going to take the job, so I can stop the interview process."

I grab the paper, read over it. "What if I sign this, and decide later tonight that I don't want the job? Then what?"

Mason shrugs. "Then I rip this up. And I start looking for someone else."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"Fine," I say, and sign the document.

***

MASON

The signing of the pre-employment contract is taking longer than I thought. I've finally gotten everyone together at the Times Square Conference Center--Jacqueline and the lawyers--but stupid shit keeps coming up that's dragging things out. First, Jacqueline wanted to bring her own lawyer, and refused to work with Carl Klein, the very seasoned contract attorney I provided for her. Then she wanted the meeting to take place somewhere other than my offices at Mason Bryant Enterprises, because she said negotiating there put her at a disadvantage. She's lucky that I find her incredibly sensuous and seductive, that I've been obsessed with making her my play partner since the first night I met her at Constantine's.

"How much longer do we need to go over this?" I say, rubbing my temples. "We're just going round-and-round in fucking circles."

Morgan O'Malley, Jaqueline's attorney, is reiterating another detail. "We want the salary guaranteed, regardless of whether or not the magazine stays in business, and whether or not she gets terminated. The only way she doesn't get the two hundred and fifty thousand, is if she quits."

"We know this," Tommy Cordell, my lawyer, says. "We've already agreed to this."

"I just want to make sure." Morgan flips to another page of the contract. "And there's another matter I want to address. It concerns the part of the agreement termed 'job description'. There are two subheadings under this section, one titled 'office relationship,' and one listed as 'club relationship'. I'd like you to be more specific in regards to the wording--"

"Stop," I say, throwing up my hands. "Just stop." I loll my head, trying to get the cramp out of my neck. "Look, if we keep squabbling like this, we'll be here until next year. No offense Morgan, but you're making a mountain out of a molehill. Yes, there are two subsections--an 'office relationship,' and a 'club relationship'. And like I said before, her job description in the office relationship is very straight forward: she's the editor in chief of the entire magazine, and her word is law. Period. Her decisions about all matters of the magazine are final. Period. And as for our 'club relationship,' that's also very clear: Jaqueline, you are not only a professional editor, but a professional dominatrix as well--at least you were in the past. This contract is an agreement to hire your services as both. Hence, the part of our agreement headed 'club relationship'."

Morgan waves her hand. "See, that's where things get fuzzy. All it really says under 'club relationship' is that Jaqueline must agree to be your 'play partner'. I don't like the way this is worded. It's too ambiguous. A 'play partner' can mean almost anything..."

I check my watch. We've been in the conference room for nearly two hours. Morgan is clearly out of her element. She knows nothing about the world of BDSM, not the etiquette, not the rules, not the behavior, none of it. She actually thinks because she's read the 50 Shadows of Gary trilogy, she's an expert on sexual roleplaying, that she's qualified to advise Jaqueline--who has over 10 years' experience in the BDSM world--on the psychological demands of a true power exchange. It's quite funny, actually, the way Morgan is trying to manipulate the language of the contract in an attempt to protect Jaqueline. It's funny because Morgan has no idea of Jaqueline's past. Now me, on the other hand, I know about Jaqueline. I've not only hired a private investigator to check out her background, but I've witnessed her behavior in person, with my own two eyes. And Jaqueline Singletary is no babe in the woods, not by a longshot. In fact, she's quite the opposite: she's a sexually experienced woman with incredibly perverse tastes. Or at least she used to be, at one time in her life.

I'll never forget that first night I saw her at Constantine's, back in 2008. There was a private party in one of the back playrooms, and Yasmine, an Eastern European lingerie model I was working with and also fucking, was invited to the party, and so her and I went inside. The room was dark, with loud techno music playing and strobe lights flashing in rhythm to the beat. A small crowd of people had gathered in the corner, and they were all watching a naked woman tied-up and lying on her back on the floor of the club with a leather collar around her neck. Thick ropes crisscrossed her body, circling her breasts and looping around her shoulders. Her wrists were bound to her ankles, and she lay on the floor, spread-eagle.

"Who's that?" I asked Yasmine, captivated by what I was seeing; I'd never been in a BDSM club before, let alone a private playroom.

Yasmine took a drag off her electronic cigarette. "The naked chick tied-up on the floor? Oh, that's Jaqueline."

"Holy fuck," I said. I was completely drawn to the woman, a stunning brunette with long legs who was no more than 24. I walked over to get a better view. There was a red ball-gag in her mouth, and her mascara was running down her cheeks. There was a guy there, too, an older, well-built bald guy in a leather outfit who was covered in piercings and tattoos. He sat between Jaqueline's legs, squirting lubricant on a long black dildo, getting it nice and slick. A moment later he was sliding it up her ass, fucking her slowly at first and then picking up his rhythm until he was pounding her like a jackhammer. He took out a vibrator and pressed it against her clit, the dildo still up her ass. Jaqueline grunted and thrashed in the ropes, her eyes rolling back into her head.

"Ooooo," she moaned, the ball-gag popping out of her mouth, spittle running down her chin. Her face was flushed, the veins in her neck popping as she struggled to endure the intensity of her orgasm.

I was floored. Totally blown away. I can't explain it, but it was almost like Jaqueline's energy--no, her orgasm--possessed me, got inside my body and left a titillating trace. Her face, the way it was gripped in ecstasy, the way she seemed to experience God Himself, was something I'll never forget. It was also something I had to have. What I wanted was to share that experience with her. I wanted in on the game. More than anything.

So I did what I had to do, like the moron I was: I approached Jaqueline later that night, after the bald guy had left and after she had washed-up and dressed, and asked if she wanted to be my play partner. At first she said yes, and explained that she was a professional, and that I could hire her services if I so desired. But when I told her I wanted to dominate her, that I had come up with a fantasy that very night that she'd probably really enjoy, she looked at me like I had five heads.