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The first encounter
She had seen him do it to another woman, and now she wanted it done to her; a chapter from a new S&M thriller.

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By Laura Reese

May 26, 2000 | I knock on James's door. His windows are covered, but they glow faintly from the inside light, the steady glow of electricity. No candles tonight. Although it was only yesterday I spied through his windows, it seems a long time ago. This time I didn't sneak up to his house, and I didn't wait until after midnight. I drove, parked my car next to his, and it's barely nine o'clock.

When he opens the door, my resolve falters for just a second. In his presence, I get a clear sense of my own inadequacy. I push the feeling all the way down, then say, "I don't want to forget about it."

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He looks at me, one hand on the door, his blond hair slightly damp. Although I left the main house soon after he did, he still, apparently, had time to shower and change. He looks as if he's going out for the evening -- gray dress slacks, long-sleeved maroon shirt, a faint trace of cologne, something musky. He doesn't seem surprised to see me. He opens the door farther. "I've been expecting you," he says.

Although he doesn't invite me in, I squeeze past him, stepping into his house. Automatically, I lay my car keys on the table by the door, as if I'd done it many times before. The lights are dim, the paintings on the walls too dark to see clearly. Upstairs, in the loft, a brighter light illuminates what I assume is his bedroom. "What made you think I'd come?" I ask.

"Just a hunch," he says, and he shuts the heavy door. It closes with an ancient sound, a hollow thud, like the sealing of a tomb. "This afternoon, on the patio, you looked as if you were unwilling to let it go. I didn't expect you so soon, however, not tonight."

I walk over to the stone hearth fireplace. A long black leather couch and three large chairs are arranged in front of it, in a U shape, with an Oriental carpet in the center. Taken by itself, his furniture appears hugely out of proportion, oversized, yet in this room, which seems as large as a medieval hall, it fits right in.

"Sit down," he says, switching on a light.

I choose one of the chairs. He sits opposite me, on the leather couch, and he runs his fingers through his damp hair, gazing at me directly, openly. His jaw, square, solid looking, is like a chunk of granite. There's a power to his presence, and he seems as he always does -- sure of himself, a man who doesn't hesitate if action is required. I'm still wearing the clothes I've had on all day -- paisley walking shorts, a long vest, a white knit top -- and compared to him, in his tailored slacks and elegant shirt, I feel dressed down, wilted. Patiently, he waits for me to begin.

"What I saw last night," I say. "I liked it. I'm not sure why ... but I did." I know I sound unsure of myself, my sentences chopped, my voice tentative. I say, "I really liked it."

James leans forward, places his elbows on his knees, then rests his chin on his interlocked fingers, looking me over. I feel awkward in his silence, as if I'd said something wrong.

"You don't know me." He says this quietly, but it sounds like a warning. "Not at all."

I shrug, as if I'm unconcerned.

He gazes at me for a minute. Finally, he says, "I don't get involved with inexperienced women. Things can get ... out of hand. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

I can tell he doesn't expect an answer. He leans back, drapes his arm along the back of the couch.

I get up and sit next to him. Having never played the seductress before, I'm unsure what to do next. Tentatively, I place my hand on his chest, feel the smooth fabric of his shirt, feel the heat of his body coming through.

He slowly smiles. He says, "Gina warned me about you."

"What did she say?"

"That you'd be trouble."

I slide my hand over the contours of his chest, the planes of muscle firm against my palm. He allows me this touch but doesn't utter a word. I say, "It sounds to me like she's jealous."

"Maybe you're right," he says, smiling a little. "Maybe you're right." He adds, "Still, she made a point -- you're not the type of woman I get involved with."

I say, "This is something I want." I hesitate, searching for the words to convince him, then add, "Something I need."

He watches me, thinking. Finally, he shakes his head, a small movement. He says, "You don't know what you're saying."

"Maybe not. But I want to learn."

I can tell, by the way he's looking at me, as if he's reassessing me, assigning a new value to my worth, that he will not refuse me now. Embarrassed, I gaze off to the side.

He puts his hand under my chin, forces me to look straight in his eyes. "Are you sure you want to do this?" he asks. "Because once we get started, I may not let you back out."

My breathing becomes shallow, anxious. "I won't back out," I tell him.

He nods, his hand still under my chin. "All right," he says suddenly, making up his mind. "I have to make a call," and he walks over to the desk, picks up the phone. After he punches in a number, I hear him talking to someone, saying he can't make it this evening. As soon as he says this, I feel a sudden twinge of panic. I didn't think we'd actually do anything tonight, especially when I saw he was dressed to go out. I assumed we would begin another day.

He hangs up the phone. "Come here," he says, walking over to the wrought-iron staircase.

Slowly, I rise. I say, "I told my neighbor I was going to be here tonight, with you."

He chuckles, a low amused laugh. "There's a term for that," he says. "It's called a silent alarm -- you tell friends where you'll be and that you'll check in at a certain time; if you don't, they notify the police." He unbuttons the cuffs on his maroon shirt, then rolls up his sleeves, taking his time, first one, then the other.

"Except I don't believe you," he adds. "I don't think you told anyone at all." He rests his hand on the black railing of the staircase. "Now come over here."

When I reach the staircase, he points for me to go up. As soon as I start to climb the stairs, he wraps his hand around my arm, making me stop. I feel the strength of him, of his fingers pressing into my flesh.

"Do you really think anyone can help you now?" he asks.

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