Mason's Secret Agreement Pt. 01

"I'm a dominatrix," she told me. "You pay me to dominate you."

"Okay," I said. "Great. But what about that whole show you put on earlier tonight?"

"That was for Stefan."

"Who's Stefan?"

"Stefan's her master," Yasmine told me, grabbing me by the arm and pulling me away from Jaqueline.

"What?" I asked.

"Stefan owns her," Yasmine said. "Jaqueline is Stefan's slave. Don't you see the collar around her neck?"

"Yeah, so what the fuck does that mean?"

"Forget it," Yasmine said. "Let's just get out of here."

But I couldn't forget it. For months I thought about Jaqueline, naked and tied-up on the playroom floor, moaning like a tortured slut as she gave herself completely to a bald dude with a ton of piercings and tattoos. The image was painfully arousing, excruciatingly so. I masturbated to it frequently, and even thought about it when I fucked other women. Who was this Jaqueline chick, and how come she saved herself for this Stefan guy?

I made it my mission to find out. I started frequenting Constantine's, and learned the basics of the BDSM scene. I read books, watched videos, and even hired a dominatrix to show me the ropes. All at once, I became obsessed with the lifestyle. I learned about roleplaying, safe-words, and the amazing psychology behind power exchange. I learned about domination, submission, and what it means to switch--to play alternate roles, like Jaqueline did. Still, Jaqueline rejected my advances. She was taken--no, owned--by Stefan. She was his property, his slave. It took a while but this reality slowly started to sink in, especially after I learned about club scene decorum, about the intricacies of BDSM etiquette. Eventually, I backed off. I accepted the reality of the situation. Until I heard, nearly seven years later, that Jaqueline was available...

"... that's the sticking point," Morgan is saying. "The definition of 'play partner.'"

I look up from my watch. "What? What are you saying now?"

"Hello?" Morgan says. "I said we need to nail down a specific definition of what a 'play partner' is. The term as it's written in the contract is too ambiguous."

"Slave," I blurt out.

Morgan freezes, stunned. "Excuse me?"

"Slave," I repeat. "I want Jaqueline to be my slave, like she was with Stefan. Is that clear enough language for you?"

Tommy, my attorney, immediately goes into damage control mode. He starts laughing and acting like I'm just kidding, that I'd simply made a tasteless joke. "What Mason means is that--"

"He wants me to be his slave," Jaqueline says suddenly. "Fine. Agreed. I'll be his slave. Write it into the contract, and let me just sign it." She runs a hand through her long, chestnut-brown hair, and looks directly at me from her seat across the conference table. Her eyes are an amazing crystal blue, like a Siberian Husky's. "Stefan. Wow. I haven't heard that name in a long time."

Morgan seems flustered. She's paging through the contract, unable to grasp what's taking place. "I don't know about the word 'slave,' that's very degrading and--"

"I do know about it," Jaqueline cuts in. "I know all about it. And so does Mason, right Mason?"

"Yes," I say, nodding.

"Good," Jaqueline says. "It's settled then. The contract language is fine. Mason and I are in full agreement. When it comes to our 'office relationship,' I'll be his editor in chief, and control the magazine. And when it comes to our 'club relationship,' I'll be his slave. There is no further negotiating necessary. Write it up so I can sign it. I'm fucking tired, and want to go home. Don't you want to go home, Mason?"

"Yes," I say, "I do."

Jaqueline picks up her pen. I do the same. The lawyers shake their heads in disbelief.

***

JAQUELINE

I'm not sure what I've gotten myself into. Chantel is most definitely not Cashmere & Silk, not even close. The two magazines are not in the same league, not even in the same zip code. This reality suddenly hits home for me sitting in my first editorial board meeting on Friday morning, surrounded by an experienced staff of older journalists and editors who are all impeccably dressed. They all know each other, and are making jokes that only those on the inside of their cliques seem to understand and find funny. The one thing I do realize, though, is that every last person in Chantel's board room on the 12th floor of the Applegarth Media Group building hates Mason Bryant, hates his guts with a passion. The reason? Well, there are three of them. First, he fired Amanda Bassett, Chantel's beloved editor in chief of 31 years. Second, he replaced her with me, some young, no-name editor with limited experience and no contacts. And third, there are rumors that Mason Bryant is out to sink the entire magazine because of some personal vendetta, which means no one's job is safe; although deep down I suspect this may very well be the case, I'm planning on doing all I can to keep the magazine afloat for as long as I can.

Gwendolyn Reese, the 45-year-old assistant editor under Amanda Bassett who was abruptly passed-over for the editor in chief position by me, is leading the meeting. For the next month at Chantel, I'm to shadow Gwendolyn, to learn the ropes by working with her side-by-side. I've only been here a week but I can already tell Gwendolyn hates me, almost as much as she hates Mason. For starters, I'm 12 years younger than her, and not a Manhattanite. And at 5'-9", I'm a whole head taller than her, which seems to irk her in some personal way. I'm quite frankly surprised by this; I thought my fashion model figure and attractive looks would be an asset at Chantel, but apparently, it's not.

Gwen is discussing the agenda for the December 28th year-end issue of Chantel--which is still over two months away. She's finalizing the details on an article in the Culture Department of the magazine that is set to be headlined, The Best Books We Read in 2017. She quickly mentions the six titles she's planning to include in the piece, and amazingly, I haven't read a single one. This is surprising, because I'm actually a pretty avid reader, being that I'm a magazine editor with a master's in journalism. But somehow, Gwen's list of "best" books that we've all supposedly read in 2017 includes nothing in my personal library. And as I listen to her prattle on about how amazing these reads are--especially a book called Loving Astrid, a novel about the hardships of a European fashion queen--I start to realize how pretentious Gwen is, how pretentious the editorial staff of Chantel all are; for a brief moment I understand why Mason might want to shut the entire operation down.

"It must be tough to be a super model," I say, referring to the main character of Loving Astrid, which I've never read, and don't plan on reading.

Gwen smiles. "Excuse me, sweetie?"

"Astrid sounds like she's had a really troubling life," I say.

"She has, actually," Gwen tells me. "She was an only-child. The whole story's a metaphor for the pressures facing only-children in affluent families. Did you pick-up on that metaphor?"

I nod. "No. I didn't read the book. Not my taste."

"Oh, that's right," Gwen says. "You're from Bay Ridge."

I hear a few snickers around the table.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I say.

"Nothing, sweetie. Nothing." Gwen goes back to discussing the books for the article. My blood starts to boil. I'm not one of those people who is quick-witted when it comes to spontaneous verbal banter. I'm definitely intelligent and articulate--a critical thinker and all that--but I have a tendency to freeze in the moment, like a deer in the headlights. Someone makes a quip and I get brain-freeze. It's maddening.

Gwen continues talking, enjoying the sound of her own voice. She's not much to look at, though, with her plain face and boring brown bob, and it's obvious her best attribute is her brain. I get the feeling, however, that Gwen thinks she is attractive. She's dressed in a short, navy blue sleeveless dress, which she has no right wearing. Her arms are too flabby for it, and her legs are too pale and stocky. She's wearing $750 Jimmy Chuck heels, which makes me think of the phrase, silk hat on a pig.

"And these six titles," Gwen is saying, "are a diverse slice of the American pop culture in 2017..."

I smolder, like bubbling lava. This bitch snubbed me in front of the entire staff, and I'm the editor in chief of the fucking magazine. That's right, goddamnit: I'm the editor in chief of the magazine.

"I don't like it," I say loudly, and stand up.

"Excuse me?"

"The other five titles can stay, but we're going to need to find a replacement for Astrid and her only-child hang-up. It doesn't belong."

Gwen puts her hands on her hips. "Doesn't belong? Please." She shrugs. "Like you'd know anyway. You haven't even read the book."

"I don't need to read it to know it's privileged elitist nonsense," I tell her. "The article you're discussing, if I'm hearing this correctly, is supposed to be about the best books we read in 2017. That's the problem with Loving Astrid: we haven't read the book. Maybe you read it, but we the readers of Chantel, haven't read it. This is one of the reasons why the magazine is losing revenue: because the editors have lost touch with their audience."

Gwen rolls her eyes. "Nice try, Jackie," she says. "But I'm afraid that--"

"Jaqueline," I tell her. "I prefer to be addressed as Jaqueline."

"I'm afraid, Jackie, that you're forgetting yourself. I'm the acting editor of this magazine, now that Amanda Bassett has been fired by that pig-headed businessman, whose name I won't mention. And as the acting editor of Chantel, I will make the final decisions regarding which titles to include in our end-of-the-year article, thank you. And Loving Astrid is not only going to be included in the piece, but I'm going to make it the featured title, and am planning on talking with production about using its cover art as the main graphic for the article as well."

"Absolutely not," I say, holding my ground. I walk over to Gwen and stand next to her, letting her know I'm a full head taller than she is, even in her Jimmy Chuck's. "According to my contract, I'm the editor in chief of this magazine."

"You're no such thing."

"Really? So you're telling me the contract drawn-up between Mason Bryant's legal team and my attorney is not valid? The one I signed last month, making me the new editor in chief of Chantel? You're telling me that's not binding anymore?"

"I'm not discussing this with you right now," Gwen says, turning her back on me. "I have a magazine to run. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to speak with our editorial staff about the year-end issue."

I take out my cellphone and without thinking, start dialing Mason's number. Not his office number, at Mason Bryant Enterprises, but his personal number, which he gave me last month, the day I signed the contract. Mason has been away on an international business trip in Brussels for several weeks, and I haven't seen him since the day at the Times Square Conference Center. He told me he'd be in touch, but other than an email I received from him last week wishing me good luck on my first day on the job, I haven't heard from him; I have to admit, I'm disappointed by this.

"Excuse me," Harold Burns, the managing editor of Chantel says. "There are no cellphones allowed in the editorial board room while a meeting is taking place."

"Whatever," I say, the phone ringing in my ear. Mason's not picking up. For a moment I almost lose my nerve and hang up, but finally he answers. I immediately put him on speaker and place my phone in the middle of the conference table for all to hear.

"Mason?" I say.

"Yes. Hello?"

"Hey, it's me. Jaqueline. Quick question for you. It will only take a minute. I know you're busy. Is my pre-employment contract still binding?"

Mason's on a hands-free in his car, and there's the crackle of static. "Of course," he says. "Why?"

"Because I'm here in an editorial board meeting at Chantel, and there seems to be a miscommunication with Gwen Reese."

"Who's Gwen Reese?"

"I'm the acting editor in chief of this magazine," Gwen cuts in. "The only person competent enough to run this publication after you so callously fired Amanda Bassett."

Mason laughs out loud. "Callously fired? That's funny. In the past five years, circulation of Chantel has dropped by nearly 250,000 copies. Readership is down, advertising sales are down, and total revenue is down. And who has been running this sinking ship? Why, your wonderful colleague, Amanda Bassett." Static crackles. "But not anymore."

"Amanda was an excellent editor," Gwen says. "She was irreplaceable."

"I'm glad you are so fond of her. But business is business. And now that I'm the owner, Amanda is out, and Jaqueline is in. Any other questions you need answered?"

"This isn't right," Gwen says. "When Applegarth Media owned this magazine, things were much different."

"Well they don't own it now," Mason says. "I do. So you need to get used to that. And regardless of your opinion of Jaqueline, you need to respect her as the new editor. It sounds to me like you haven't even given her a chance. I hired her for a reason. She's younger, comes from a working-class background, and will give the magazine a new--and perhaps a more grounded--perspective. Who knows. People might even start reading Chantel again."

"What a joke," Gwen mumbles.

"Excuse me? What was that?"

"I said this whole thing... you making Jaqueline the new editor... it's a joke."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, it is."

"Great," Mason tells her. "You're fired."

"What?"

"You're fired. Did I stutter? Pack-up your shit and get out of the building."

Gwen shakes her head. "Oh no... no, no, no. You can't fire me."

"I just did. You have until the end of the day to clean out your desk."

"I'm being replaced by Jaqueline Singletary?"

"That's correct."

"This twit? This whips-and-chains dominatrix twit?"

"Hey," Mason says. "Watch your fucking mouth. Don't you ever, and I mean ever, talk about Jaqueline like that again, do you hear me? Now get your fucking shit together, and get the fuck out of my building."

"You can't talk to me like that!" Gwen says, nearly crying. "I'm going to sue you! You're going to hear from my lawyer!"

"Great. Bring it on. I have a whole team of attorneys sitting around on retainer, bored to tears. This will give them something to do. Now get out of my building, and don't ever come back."

Mason hangs up.

I swallow.

The silence in the board room is deafening.

***

MASON

I take Jaqueline out to dinner Saturday night to celebrate her first week at Chantel. After the fiasco with Gwen Reese, we both can use a night out to unwind. We're sitting in the dining room of Le Beaufort, drinking a bottle of champagne and sampling the six-course tasting menu: caviar tartare; crab cake; lacquered lobster tail; salmon; dover sole; and white tuna. The ambience is unusually romantic and Jaqueline looks absolutely stunning in her silver off-the-shoulder cocktail dress, and black, open-toed pumps. She has a sexy French pedicure, and I have the urge to grab her delicate, fine-boned feet and just hold them in my hands and play with them for hours. For a moment I actually wonder if I'm underdressed in my black loafers, gray tweed pants and dark blue sport jacket.

I have a present for her, a pair of $5,000 diamond drop earrings from Trinity's. I slide the blue box across the table to her.

"Oh my God," she says. "What's this?"

"A present. To celebrate your first week at Chantel. Go ahead. Open it."

"Mason," she says, and opens the box. Her eyes light up and she's absolutely glowing, clearly turned-on by the whole affair. I smile, knowing that I'm full of shit. The fancy dinner and diamond earrings aren't exactly a celebration of her first week at the magazine, not exactly. A better way to describe them would be a celebration of her last week at Chantel.

I'm planning on firing Jaqueline tomorrow. After our play session at Constantine's later tonight. I absolutely hate myself for it, but there's no other way. The guilt is killing me, which is why I've gone to all this trouble to make this night special for her. To make her feel important and appreciated. Once our dinner is over and we head to the BDSM club, she's going to be nothing to me but property. Nothing but my slave. I've waited for this moment for years, and now that it's here, it's bittersweet. But that's the world of bondage, discipline, and sadomasochism. That's the world of adult roleplaying; it's what she agreed to and signed on for. It's a shame our compact is only going to last one night, but there's not a whole lot I can do about that now. Not now.

She takes the earrings out of the box and holds them up.

"Go ahead," I tell her. "Put them on."

I lean forward and brush her long brown hair back from her ears. She smells amazing, and her wet glossy lips are ripe for tasting. The candle on our table is reflecting in her crystal blue eyes, and all at once I experience this horrible ache in my chest at the thought of having to let her go so soon. But what are my options? Keep her on and risk losing the magazine to fashion mogul Marco Moretti? That's not an option. The thought of that flamboyant lunatic running the magazine is even worse than Amanda Bassett at the helm, or Gwen Reese, for that matter.

"How do they look?" Jaqueline asks me.

I tell her they look incredible. That she looks incredible.

"Thank you," she says, blushing.

We toast our champagne glasses. I only take a small sip of the wine, because my stomach is still queasy from the night before. Jesus, what a fucking mess last night was. What a fucking amateur hour. But hey, I did it to myself, right? I broke my own rule about never making a deal or a bet while intoxicated. Sure, I've made dozens of wagers and deals while half-cocked--some of my greatest business agreements were proposed over drinks in clubs, in fact--and as the saying goes, why get rid of something if it works? But the answer is simple: sooner or later it's going to come back and bite you in the ass. Sooner or later one or two drinks are going to turn into eight or ten, and your better judgement is going to get blurred, and stupid shit is going to happen. Which is exactly what went down last night at Kerouac's, a cigar bar specializing in single malt scotch in the East Village.

Even now, I can barely bring myself to think about it. Shit, I can barely remember it; if it wasn't for Marco's fucking cellphone video, I don't know if I'd even believe the conversation took place. But it did, and the prick won't let me forget it. And in classic Marco Moretti fashion, he sent me a copy of the goddamn video first thing this morning, when I was still in the bathroom, puking my guts up. And to top things off, he called me, too. Gave me just enough time to watch the humiliating clip before dialing my number and harassing me.

"Did you see it?" he said to me, his Italian accent faint but still there nonetheless. Marco came over to America when he was 15, made his first million in the fragrance industry by 25, and with his clothing lines and talent agency, is worth almost as much as me, the goddamn bipolar hack. He's a genius, though. A crazy genius. At 55, he looks and sounds just like the late great eccentric pianist Rocco Libby, especially his thick head of hair and sideburns. Incredibly, in an interview with JQ magazine, Moretti even claimed to be possessed by Rocco Libby's spirit.

"What the fuck?" I said, still kneeling in front of the toilet. "I don't remember this."

"I do." He started cracking up laughing, his typical Marco Moretti lunatic laugh. "Now who's the asshole?"

"Apparently me." I dry heaved. "Jesus. My fucking head. What the fuck were we drinking last night, single malts?"