Archive of Our Own

This was a mistake. 

He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t have gone to that website. He shouldn’t have read the profiles of all the women (and a few men) who worked through this agency. He shouldn’t have found one profile in particular so alluring that he read and re-read it more than a dozen times. He shouldn’t have fixated on the woman in the profile--the one who offered “gentle but firm discipline” that focused on “all the fine points of sensitivity”--the one whose picture was soft and light, almost demure compared to the lurid boldness that made up everything else about that website.

He shouldn’t have masturbated to the thought of that girl. He shouldn’t have climaxed to the fantasy of a beautiful stranger playing with his body like he was her own personal cat toy--her claws out as she ripped his defenses to shreds and left him weak, weeping with delight.

He definitely shouldn’t have gone back to the same website the next day. He shouldn’t have clicked the link to know more about the girl in the photo. He shouldn’t have filled in a profile and questionnaire that was blisteringly honest, except for his name. He shouldn’t have responded to her emails asking for more information about him. He shouldn’t have scheduled an appointment with her. He shouldn’t have bought a PayPal gift card in cash at the grocery store. He shouldn’t have closed his pawn shop in the middle of the week and made the drive down to Boston.

He shouldn’t be standing in front of a nondescript office building preparing to let himself be splayed open and broken by a woman who would take his money and then kick him out.

At least that part wasn’t a new experience, Gold thought drily, though knowing it was going to happen ahead of time added new color to the occasion. 

With a deep breath to steady his nerves, Theodore Gold opened the glass door into the building. The place looked so ordinary . He could be walking into a dentist’s office, or a chiropractor. After the car crash, he’d spent six months going to physical therapy for his leg in an office just like this.

He could only hope that this experience would do more good than those efforts ever had.     

Gold went to the suite listed in his email. A young woman with bright red hair sat at a reception guest in the front of the room. Hardly in control of his own actions, Gold approached her. 

“I scheduled an appointment.” His mouth was dry, his voice raspy. 

“Of course.” The young woman smiled at him briefly, then turned to her computer. “What’s the name?”

“Rumford Weaver,” Gold lied without hesitation

“Okay.” Typing and clicking. “Looks like you paid ahead online, and that’s all in order.” The young woman’s smile broadened. “Oh, you’re scheduled with Lacey Rose? She’s great .”

“You know that?” For a moment, his nerves disappeared, banished by the force of his curiosity. “Have you… used her services?” 

The receptionist had wide eyes, blue-green as the sea. As she got up from her desk, she winked at him. “I’ll never tell. We take confidentiality very seriously in this office.”

The young woman beckoned Gold to follow her. Her bright red ponytail bounced as she led him through the fluorescent-lit hallways. 

Unlike the doctor’s offices it so closely resembled, this suite didn’t have a central waiting room. Instead, the receptionist walked him past half a dozen doors, each with a small white-noise machine on the ground next to it. When they got to the end of the hall, the young woman pulled out a key from the pocket of her cardigan. She unlocked the door that was closest to a sunny window.

“The doors are locked?” Gold asked.

“Only on the outside.” The receptionist jiggled the handle that was inside the room to show him. “No one can barge in on you, but you can get out any time.”

 She held the door open, and he stepped in.

“You can have a seat if you want. Lacey will be with you in just a moment.”

Gold didn’t say anything to the receptionist, he was too occupied looking around. By the time it occurred to him to thank her, she had already shut the door and left.  

Leaning on his cane, Gold stood in the center of the room. Suddenly, this had all become overwhelming. What the hell was he doing ? Gold had never solicited a sex worker before, let alone something like this . What he wanted, what he had already paid this stranger--this Lacey-- to do to him was repulsive. Any sane person would say so. If his father had lived to find out about this, he would have disowned him--again. Millah would never have indulged these desires in their marriage. Cora would have, and that was as good a condemnation as anything else. 

He was wrong. He was sick. He shouldn’t be here.

This was a mistake. 

In a desperate attempt to gather his sanity, Gold took a deep breath and closed his eyes. After a slow count to ten, he let himself exhale. Then he opened his eyes again. 

The room was different than he thought a dominatrix’s domain would be. There wasn’t any black leather or red latex, no implements of torture on display. There wasn’t even a bed, though Gold supposed the plush chaise lounge could serve for any activity where one party had to be horizontal. 

The whole thing was… light. Pretty. The walls were still doctor’s-office white, but the furnishings looked like an old sitting room, some hidden nook at a bed and breakfast. Along with the chaise, there was a wingback chair and a footstool, all upholstered in the same dreamy pastel blue. The antique dealer in him recognized the reproduction of a Queen Anne style, with the polished walnut legs carved into sleek S-curves.

That had always been one of his favorite eras of furniture. Gold hoped that was a good sign. Maybe the person who did business in this room could also appreciate how much strength could hide behind the appearance of grace and delicacy. 

Next to the chair was a round wooden side table, with a pastel blue tablecloth draped over it. On the table was a pitcher of ice water and two glasses. The clear glass pitcher was so round it was practically a sphere. The squat little jug was anachronistic to the rest of the classical furnishings, more 1960s or 1970s. Gold through it looked odd juxtaposed against the rest of the room’s elegance, almost comic. The hint of fun kept the room from being too stuffy. 

The only part of the room that seemed even remotely risque were the framed pictures on the walls. All the frames were brown wooden ovals, with convex glass bubbled outward over the images. The pictures were vintage nudes or pinups. Sepia-toned photographs showed women and men displaying their bodies for the camera with knowing smirks. Illustrated drawings showed scenes of pleasure and pain where cartoonishly-proportioned characters made exaggerated expressions of delight. In a less tense moment, Gold would have found the pictures vulgar and perhaps embarrassing. But as tightly-wound as he was now, he welcomed the excuse to chuckle. It felt like the first time he had breathed since he’d gotten out of his car. 

He wasn’t a freak for wanting this woman’s services. Lots of people wanted what he wanted. If enough other people engaged in this that jokes could be made about it, then it wasn’t unheard of at all. For God’s sake, all the workers in this office suite made their living from clients like Gold.

He was fine. This was going to be alright. Lacey Rose was a professional. What was the worst that could happen?

The spirit of optimism lasted for another minute and a half, until a door opposite the one Gold had come in through opened, and Gold caught his first look at his dominatrix, Lacey Rose.

Or as he knew her, his tenant, Belle French.

She looked like her profile picture. Of course, it wasn’t until this moment that Gold realized just how little that photograph actually showed of her face. The picture had been a three-quarter view, with “Lacey”’s eyes downcast and her lips quirked up in a saucy grin. Honey-brown curls had draped over most of her features. That hair was so unlike the straightened auburn he had seen around Storybrooke every day for the past year. 

If the picture had shown her eyes, Gold would have recognized Miss French right away.  That would have stopped him from making an appointment. He couldn’t say whether or not it would have stopped him from reading her profile. Or from fantasizing about her.

“Oh, shit, ” Miss French said as soon as she saw him. 

She wasn’t wearing the sensible skirts and comfortable sweaters he normally saw her in. This costume matched the tone of her profile picture. It matched the room where she did business. A pale blue corset laced up her front, with brown leather trim around the very low neckline. True to her stage name, she wore a lace blouse underneath the corset. Frothy, cream-colored frills poured out from around her neckline and capped sleeves. 

She was wearing leather pants. Tight leather pants, the same brown as the accents of her corset. And black, high-heeled riding boots. 

Leather and lace. Darkness and light. Sex and innocence. Disparate parts coming together to make something new, something incredible. All wrapped up in Belle French . 

Belle French, who always waved at the pawn shop when she passed through town on the way to her apartment above the old library. Belle French, who always offered a few minutes of friendly chat when he came by for the rent. Belle French, who had brought him a plate of cookies last Christmas--the first gift he’d received in years. Belle French, who was kind and lovely and wholesome, who smiled at him and spoke to him more than anyone else in Storybrooke. 

“Shit,” Gold whispered. 

In the terrible silence of their mutual recognition, Miss French had gotten over her shock enough to speak. “Mr. Gold, I’m so sorry, I think there was some kind of mix-up. I’m supposed to be meeting a man named Rumford.”

Gold forced himself to look at the ground. He wouldn’t ogle Miss French, though he considered his money well spent just for getting the opportunity to see her in her current getup. 

“What an odd coincidence." He tried not to sound bitter. “I’m supposed to be meeting with Lacey Rose.”

“Shit,” Miss French said again. With the distracted air of someone in crisis, she went to the table and poured herself a glass of ice water. Then she sank down to sit at the end of the chaise lounge. She took a long drink, and looked up at him. “Nobody in Storybrooke knows that I do this.”

“I certainly didn’t.” He took a seat in the wingback chair across from her. “I never would have contacted you if I had. I thought you were a student.”

“I am. This is how I pay for it. Master’s degrees don’t come cheap.” Miss French’s shoulders slumped. “Crap, now I’m gonna have to find a new apartment.”

Gold tilted his head. “Why?” 

She looked up at him and raised her hands, indicating the room, her costume, the entire situation. “I mean…”

“Miss French, I’m not any threat to you. It’s not my practice to toss perfectly good tenants out onto the street.”

She scoffed.  “Well, thanks for that. But won’t it be a little awkward when I give you my rent and now you know where it came from?”

Gold leaned forward, his cane between his knees in front of him. “Much more awkward to know that my own money is now included in that category.”

“Oh no, it won’t be,” Miss French said quickly. “I couldn’t possibly have you as a client now. I’ll make sure Ariel gives you a refund. Or I can have your appointment transferred to one of my colleagues. They’re--”

“No.” He cut her off. “I don’t need my money back. And I’m not interested in any of the other people employed by this agency.” He dared to look over at Miss French. “I wanted you,” he said. “Or at least, I wanted Lacey Rose.”

She was looking away from him, with her lips pressed together in a thin line. It looked like she was trying to stop herself from either smiling or frowning. Gold couldn’t tell which was more likely. 

“That’s a shame,” she said at last. “I was really looking forward to meeting Rumford Weaver.”

She was? Why? Gold thought back to their brief email exchange. It had mostly been specifics about this appointment: what his expectations were, what she could offer him, what he wanted or wanted to avoid. He hadn’t tried to be suave or charming--not that he had much experience with being either. He had written to “Lacey” out of pain and loneliness, offering this woman nothing but his perverse needs and the promise of payment.

But Miss French had offered him the money back. It seemed all she wanted was his need. 

It was impossible. Miss French didn’t want him, not that secret, huddled version of himself that he had spent years trying to keep buried. Gold knew he had a few things to offer a woman--class, wealth, intelligent conversation. He could play the role of a powerful lover, the terror of Storybrooke, the kind of dominant alpha type that so many women wanted. But it was always a role. It exhausted him to pretend that he had no weaknesses, that he didn’t care about anyone, that he never cried or was afraid. 

When emailing Lacey, he had shown her his weaknesses. He had told her how worthless he felt, what a liar he was to pretend otherwise. How he needed to be punished, how he felt like he was being punished, all the time, and how he just wanted to be at peace. Rumford Weaver had told Lacey Rose how much he wanted to be small and safe and cared for, as Gold never had been.

And now Miss French said that she had been looking forward to meeting him. Did she want to give him what he asked for? Was that possible?

Gold couldn’t risk finding out. He couldn’t endure that sort of rejection--not from someone who had until now been the kindest woman he’d ever met. He stood up from the chair and went to the door.

“I should go.”

“Wait.” Miss French was off the chaise lounge and next to him. She put her hand over his on the door handle. Her touch was soft and warm. “You--you really don’t have to go, Mr. Gold.”

He couldn’t look at her. He couldn’t raise his eyes away from the sight of their hands. She was touching him.

When was the last time anyone had touched him?

“I don’t want to go,” he whispered. Saying the words out loud felt like releasing a weight that he had been carrying on his back for decades. Slowly, he raised his head to look at Belle French. “May I really stay?” he asked her. “W-will you do a session with me?”

Miss French waited until his eyes were on hers before she spoke. “If you don’t mind being dommed by your renter, I don’t mind domming my landlord. I’ve wanted to get to know you better for a long time, Mr. Gold.”

Nodding, Gold stepped away from the door. 

****

Once Belle had decided that she was going to do a scene with Gold, it wasn’t hard to treat him like a regular client. 

“Okay.” Her go-to starting tone with clients was authoritative, but gentle. Sort of an elementary school teacher that all the good little girls and boys wanted to please. “The first thing we’re going to do is sit down and have a talk about what’s going to happen today.”

“Right.” Gold started to take his previous place in the wingback chair, but Belle stopped him before he could lower himself. 

“That’s my seat,” she said, firm but sweet. With a slight nudge, she got him away from the chair. Then she sat down, with one leg crossed over her knee. 

Gold stepped back, giving her plenty of room. After swiveling his head around the room for a moment, he took a seat on the chaise lounge, near the armrest. 

“Do you want some water before we begin?”

His mouth opened but he didn’t speak for a moment. “What happens if I say no?”

“Then I won’t give you any.” Belle smiled at him, and he gave her a grateful nod.

God, he was so scared! She had never seen Mr. Gold looking anything less than perfectly collected, cool to the point of coldness. In the months she’d been renting from him, she’d come to suspect that there was something sexy hidden underneath all his layers of suits and professionalism. But she had never thought that he’d be as vulnerable as the client she’d exchanged emails with. 

“You can say no to anything,” Belle assured him. “I’m here for you . Have you ever done a BDSM scene before?”

Gold had been looking away, but the question seemed to bring him up short. “No,” he said softly. “Nothing real.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Looking down, he shook his head and rubbed the space between his eyes. The wrinkles in his forehead creased. All Belle could think of was how she wanted to soothe them away with her fingers or her lips.

“Just… porn,” he said at last. “Or research on the internet. Articles, blogs. People can be very frank, behind a wall of anonymity. That was how I found the website for this agency--a customer review.”

“Of me?”

“No, it was one of the male dominants. But it led me to the website, and I found your profile and…” he sighed. “And I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I mean, about Lacey.”

In her line of work, Belle didn’t let a client’s opinion of her mean much, but she did take professional pride in knowing that her profile had caught the attention of someone as intellectual and classy as Mr. Gold.

“Mr. Gold--wait a minute, what’s your first name?”

“Theodore,” he answered. 

“Friends call you Ted?”

He gave her a grim smile. “Everyone who speaks to me calls me Mr. Gold.”

The email from Rumford Weaver said something like that--that he didn’t have any friends or family or romantic interests. It wasn’t a surprising lifestyle for one of her clients, but it was always terribly sad. 

“What would you like people to call you? What should I call you?”

“Theo.” He looked shy, as he said it. “No one’s ever called me that, but I’ve always liked it.”

“Okay, Theo,” Belle nodded encouragingly. “Thank you.”

He didn’t say anything, but Belle saw a blush creeping up his cheeks. How far did that blush go? Theo Gold’s face and hands were tanned. What did the rest of his body look like? How would his skin react to praise? To touch? To pain? Belle had never seen her landlord in less than a three-piece suit. The thought that very soon she would see more of him than anyone else in Storybrooke filled her with a thrill that was much more than professional pride.

“We can’t have sex!” Belle blurted shrilly, then winced at the sound of her own voice. Where had that thought come from?

Theo looked at her, more puzzled than upset. “Yes, your emails were quite clear on that point.”

“Right.” She exhaled quietly, trying to treat him like any other client. This situation was affecting her in a way she didn’t have time to explore right now. For now, she had to keep herself in control. Theo needed her. “So the standing rule for any client is that I can touch you, but you can’t touch me.”

His eyes, when he looked at her, were big and brown and full of need. “You’ll touch me?”

Belle gave him a smile and a small nod. “If that’s okay with you.”

“Yes.”

She couldn’t let herself dwell on how softly he spoke, how quickly he gave his consent, how overwhelmed he sounded. She had to get on with the preliminaries so she would know what to do once things really got started.

“In your email, you talked about punishment. Were you thinking of something physical, or more psychological?”

He looked down at the floor. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “In my head, I was imagining whips and chains, being… broken down, ground into dust. But now that I’m here, sitting in front of you…”

Theo trailed off, so Belle offered an explanation. “Going from fantasy to reality can be a lot for people, especially on the first time. Is it okay if I use my discretion?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, based on your emails and what we’ve talked about today, I think you do want a physical sensation. But I don’t think you’re ready for anything extreme. So, for example, I might scratch you with my fingernails, but I won’t try to break the skin. Does that sound like something you might enjoy?”

His eyes fluttered closed, and he nodded.

“And as I said, you can say no at any time. You can tell me to slow down, or go lighter or move to a different part of your body. This experience is about you , Theo. I want to make you feel good--and sometimes pain can be a part of feeling good.”

“I’ve never had that before.”

“A lot of people haven’t. But in my opinion, more people should. Now, how do you feel about being restrained?”

He breathed in sharply. “I--I like the idea of it.”

“Good. And like with the pain, I’ll start you off slowly. You can refuse or ask for less whenever you want to. Are you allergic to anything? Metal, latex, fragrances?”

Theo shook his head.

“What about your leg? Do you have any concerns about positions?”

“I can’t stand unsupported for more than a few minutes.” He gestured with his cane. “And even then, it’s… painful.”

“Do you think you might be able to kneel for me?”

This time, he didn’t answer. Bracing himself against his cane, Theodore Gold slid off the chaise lounge. He dropped to one knee, then the other, then laid his cane on the ground in front of him. He rested his hands on his thighs, palms up, and looked at her.

“I can kneel for you, Miss French.”

Belle took in the sight of him. The powerful Mr. Gold, the most feared man in Storybrooke, was on his knees. For her . This was a part of him that no one had ever seen. From what she could tell, this was a part of Theo that even he had trouble fully accepting. He was giving this to her, his most hidden, most vulnerable self.

He was beautiful.

“Good boy,” she whispered.

****

It was harder for Gold to get up than it had been to kneel. On his knees, he had felt like nothing. He didn’t have to pretend anymore, he didn’t have to keep up the masks he wore for all the world. On his knees, he wasn’t a landlord or a businessman or the sharpest dealmaker in three states. On his knees, he wasn’t a disgraced son or a failed husband and father, or a disappointing half of a power couple. On his knees, he was just Theo. And that was all he had to be. Someone he had never been before. 

Miss French helped him up, and guided him to the door she had come out of earlier.

“I’m going to give you a few minutes alone. I want you to undress to the level of your comfort. If you want to take off everything, that’s fine. If you don’t want to take off anything, that’s fine.”

Gold nodded.

Miss French pointed to a large piece of furniture in the center of the room, an inclined bench on a platform. “When you’re ready to begin the scene, I want you to lie down on your back. I’ll be back in a few minutes, and we’ll take it from there. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mi--should I keep calling you Miss French?”

She shrugged. “Most of my clients call me Miss Lacey or Mistress Lacey, so that’s close enough. Or Mistress Belle would be okay, since you actually know me.”

Despite her reassurances, it felt odd to use her real name. “What if I just called you Mistress?”

Her pink lips twisted into a grin. “Oh, I think I’d like that very much, Theo.” 

She closed the door behind her, and left him alone in a new room. This was darker than the first, though no less rich and comfortable. Unlike a doctor’s office, this room felt intimate, sensuous. Safe. The harsh fluorescents were off in here. Small lamps and electric candles bathed the room in a golden glow. 

The bench where he was to wait for Miss French was upholstered in navy blue vinyl, the kind used on boats. Gold supposed it was waterproof for easy cleanup. Sapphire blue throw pillows made the bench feel less clinical, and they matched the thick curtains hanging from the wall. The plush rug on the floor was cobalt blue. That would feel good to kneel on. Gold saw a wooden armoire and a cedar chest--where Belle stored her supplies.

On the wall behind the door, there were a trio of carved wooden hooks, all empty. That was where he would have to put his clothes. 

He could take off his suit coat easily. And his waistcoat. Lots of men walked around wearing only a shirt and tie and trousers. Bracing himself against the wall, Gold kicked off his shoes. He should have taken the time to sit down and untie them, but this was hard enough. He didn’t want to have to stop and think about what he was doing.

Tie next, and then it was perfectly natural to unbutton his shirt. He put his cuff links in his trouser pocket, along with his sleeve garters. Gold hesitated for a moment, then decided to take the plunge and take off his shirt. He had an undershirt on, he could wear that for as long as he needed to. Belle had said that he could wear as much or as little as he wanted to.

She would take care of him.

The thought warmed Gold’s heart for a moment, but then he shook his head and undid his belt buckle. Miss French was a professional. She did this for a living. She had probably done this a hundred times in the past month. Being friendly and ensuring trust was one of the skills of her craft. It was how she retained clients, it didn’t mean that she had any particular fondness for him.

Pulling down his trousers, Gold tried to ignore the bulge in his boxers. While he would never deny his attraction to the idea of Lacey Rose, it was a different matter to let himself get hard in the presence of Miss French. He palmed his cock through the black silk, as though the touch would calm his arousal instead of increasing it.

“Fuck,” he hissed. 

Well, there was nothing for it. The only way to keep his composure would be with a reminder of how pathetic and unpalatable he really was. The undershirt would have to come off. 

The cool air made his nipples pucker and shrink, self-consciousness did the same to his cock. Gold breathed a sigh of relief. Now Mistress wouldn’t have proof of what a pervert he was. 

Theodore Gold stood in the blue room wearing nothing but his underwear and socks. Keeping his crushed ankle hidden was less an act of pride than it was a courtesy to Miss French. No one needed to see that. 

As instructed, Gold got himself up on the raised bench. He lay on his back, with his hands folded together under his rib cage. Soon, there was a knock on the door. 

“Are you ready for me, Theo?”

His heartbeat had been going at a brisk pace already, but now it began to sprint. 

“Yes,” he gulped. “Please come in, Mistress.”

The door opened. Miss French came in, with powerful, long-legged strides. But, somehow, she wasn’t Miss French anymore. The friendly Library Studies student had been left in the other room. Now she was Lacey Rose. Even better, now she was Mistress.

“How polite you are.” She stood in front of the bench, with her hands on her hips and her elbows pointed out to either side. She had a riding crop in one hand.

Gold swallowed, but said nothing.

She strode closer to him and used the flat end of the riding crop to lift up his chin so he was looking into her eyes.

“When I speak to you, I expect an answer. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mistress,” he whispered. “Th-thank you for saying that I am polite, Mistress.”

She lowered the crop and gave him an approving nod. “Good boy.”

Gold heard his breath come out in pants. “Thank you, Mistress.”

Going over to the armoire, she pulled out a coiled length of yellow rope. It didn’t look intimidating, more like a curtain pull than anything else.

“Now, I’m sure a good boy like you remembers the rules about touching.” She draped the rope over his wrists. Gold gasped at the cool touch of nylon. “But I know that even good boys can get carried away, when they get excited. So I like to give them a little reminder.” She took a moment to brush a lock of his hair away from his face. “Is that alright, Theo?”

Gold nodded under her hand. “Yes, Mistress.” 

She tied him up in silence. The rope was soft against his skin, the coolness soothing. Gently taking his arms, she set his hands, one on top of the other, over his groin. Her fingers grazed delicately through the sparse hairs on his arms, leaving trails of goosebumps in her wake. Her knots were loose, he could flex his fingers and move his wrists. 

“Is that too tight for my sweet Theo?”

“No, Mistress,” Gold said. And it wasn’t. He could probably get out of the ropes if he wanted to.

He didn’t want to.

“Good,” Mistress smiled. She stroked his hair again. Then her soft, pale fingers traced lines along his face. All Gold could do was close his eyes and lean into her touch.

“Do you like it when I touch you, Theo?” She rested her hand over his throat. 

“Yes,” he breathed. “Yes, Mistress, I do.”

“Good,” she said again. “You are allowed to touch yourself, by the way. I think the ropes should be loose enough for that.”

Gold’s cock jumped into his bound hands. Gold himself sat up on the bench. “No, please!” he begged. “Miss French, please don’t give me permission for that .”

She tilted her head to the side. “You didn’t mention anything about chastity in your emails. We can switch over to that if you’d like.”

“It’s--” Gold tried to gesture, but could only bring his bound hands up to the level of his chest. “I don’t… I don’t want chastity in general. I just… I’d rather you didn’t encourage me to…” He looked down, at his boxers. “Not about you , Miss French.”

The proud stance of her posture eased. Belle French gave him a sweet, sad smile. “Whatever you say goes, Theo. We won’t do anything you’re not comfortable with.” She set one hand down on the bench, near his body, but not touching him. “But I am a sex worker. It’s nothing new for clients to masturbate in front of me. I want you to have a good time, even ‘to completion,’ as they say.”

Gold hung his head. “I shouldn’t,” he whispered. “It’s… wrong.”

“To be aroused?”

“To use you.” He dared to look up at her, and saw her looking at him--calm and gentle and perfect. “For my pleasure. I know other men do it, but I… shouldn’t.”

Belle French licked her lips. Her wet, pink tongue parted soft folds of flesh. Oh fuck .

“What if I asked you to?” she offered.

“What?”

She stood up straight, tossed her hair back over her shoulders. She leaned over Gold, forcing him to lie back down on the bench. “What if your mistress ordered you to touch your hot, hard prick until you came in front of her?”

Gold shuddered. Under his hands, his cock was every bit as hot and hard as Mistress had said.

“W-what about pain?” he whispered. “What about my punishment?”

Mistress shut her eyes for a moment. “Theo,” she murmured. “My sweet, lovely Theo. I think you punish yourself . And I think you need someone to tell you when the punishment is over.”

He felt an ache in his heart that he had never noticed before. A pain, that he could never remember not carrying around with him. Could she really make it go away? “Will you do that? Mistress?”

Now she cupped his face, cradling him in both hands. “Oh yes, Theo,” she whispered. “Nothing would make me happier.”

****

Belle helped him get off of the bench. In other circumstances, gripping a man’s upper arm would be practically platonic, but Theo’s flesh was hot under her touch. 

A fine sheen of sweat had gathered over his forehead and his upper back. Belle took a second to admire the view. How would her Theo react to ice cubes sliding across his heated brow? He said he wanted pain, but Belle itched to have him play with all kinds of sensations. Hot and cold, silky and scratchy. She wanted Theo to feel the good as well as the bad.

She hoped she would get a chance to show him everything his body was capable of. But first, she had to help him understand that he was allowed to be aroused by this situation.

“On your knees again, dear,” she ordered.

Theo sank onto the faux-fur rug she had over the office’s short carpet. “Thank you, Mistress,” he whispered.

Oh, the warmth that welled up in her heart every time he said that word! It was so special, coming from him. Other clients called her Mistress Lacey, but only Theo knew that she was really Belle. He saw her. He knew who she was beyond the atmosphere and the persona. And he still wanted to worship her.

She stood over him. His head was tilted up. It would have been the perfect position for her to straddle his face and order him to eat her out and until she screamed. But that couldn’t happen now. Theo wasn’t her lover, he was just her client. This was about his pleasure. 

Slowly, Belle swished her riding crop in the air over his back. Tiny muscle movements around his eyes and face signaled that he felt the motion. “You just stay still, Theo.”

“Yes, Mistress.” He closed his eyes and tried to settle himself.

“No, keep looking at me.” She gave her voice an edge for just a moment, then turned back on the sweetness. “I want to know that you’re thinking about me, Theo.”

“Yes, Mistress,” he whispered. His brown eyes swept up and down her body. “ Always , Mistress.”

Belle brought the riding crop closer to his skin. The sky-blue leather danced against his back like a windshield wiper. This technique was more like what she would use with a feather, but Theo was such a ball of nerves that even this gentle touch made him shiver.

 Making sure that he was watching her, she looked down at his crotch. He wasn’t stroking his cock, but his bound hands were over his bulge and his fingers twiddled back and forth. 

“What are you doing, Theo?”

His body jerked. He breathed in sharply. But his eyes stayed uplifted. “I’m looking at you, Mistress.”

She gave him an indulgent chuckle. He wasn’t wrong, she couldn’t get him for that. Instead, she stepped away, so he could see all of her at once. She stood with her legs apart and her arms behind her back, chest out. 

“And do you like what you see, little one?”

Belle watched his hand begin to squeeze his cock. Was he even aware that he was doing it?

“Yes, Mistress,” he whispered. 

She grinned. “Well then, why don’t you tell me about myself, hmm?” She strode around the small room, giving him several different angles of her body. “Tell me what you like about me.”

“Oh, Mistress,” Theo panted. “You are beautiful .”

“Mm-hmm.” She got close enough to rub the flat end of the riding crop against his chest. He was tan everywhere. Thin, with scattered strands of body hair on his thighs. His clavicle stood out under his skin. The area around it was splotchy with pink blushes. “So beautiful.”  

He breathed in slowly through his nose. He was shaking.

“Talk to me, Theo,” she ordered. “What are you feeling?”

“Fuck, I’m so hard,” he whispered. “I… You… You make me feel so good, Mistress.”

“Good.”

“You are so soft, but so strong. You are lovely . I--oh God--I want you to use me. Mistress, I want you to hurt me. I want to be marked and bruised and bleeding for you. I want you to take everything I have, whatever part of me is worthwhile in your sight. Whatever I have to offer that will give you pleasure. I--”

“I want that too.” Dropping the crop, Belle buried both hands in his long, thick hair. Again, she fought off the desire to pull him into her, to cradle his head against her stomach, to hold him as he told her everything he wanted. She couldn’t keep a professional distance, she wanted to be close to him.

But she had to step away. 

Belle circled her Theo. She took in his body. The slow, steady motion of his hands, the slight, rhythmic jerking of his hips. Now that she wasn’t in front of him, he closed his eyes again. His lips were parted and she could see his tongue. 

“Theo?” She kept her voice soft, but clear. “Do you like jerking off in front of me?”

“Fuck!” He jolted forward, almost breaking his kneel. Even with his wrists tied together, he was able to regain his balance. The hand rubbing his cock was going considerably faster now. 

“I asked you a question, darling.”

“Yes!” he panted. “Yes, Mistress, I like jerking off for you.”

“Mmm.” She didn’t exaggerate her moan as much as she usually did for clients. Belle leaned against the cedar chest and spread her arms and legs wide. She craned her head back to expose her neck. “That is my good boy. ”

Theo’s breathing got even heavier. He kept his eyes trained on her face. The dark brown of his eyes were like deep wells. If she slipped into them, how far would she fall? 

“Are you--” he stopped himself, but then seemed to gather up his courage. “Mistress, are you enjoying yourself?” 

Lots of clients asked her that. It wasn’t just that people who paid for her services wanted to please her--though of course plenty did--but more that some men wanted all potential sex partners around them to be exactly as aroused as they were. It was a typical question. But Theo Gold was going to get an answer she would only give to him.

While he was still pumping his cock, while his beautiful eyes were still focused on her face, Belle lifted one hand up in the air. With a slow, lingering wave, she brought it down. His eyes followed the motion. Then she slipped her hand down the waistband of her pants.

Theo gasped, and Belle smirked.

“What?” she asked, all breathy innocence. “The rules said that I could touch you, but you can’t touch me. Nothing about you touching yourself, or me touching myself .” 

Apparently beyond words, Theo let out a high, keening whine. His fist was going at a furious pace over his boxers. It wouldn’t take much longer. If Belle was going to give him a memorable detail, it would have to be now. 

Under her leather pants, Belle wore an ordinary pair of white cotton panties. She owned more risque options, but hadn’t thought they’d be necessary for work today. Her fingers plunged into her pussy and--fuck! She knew she’d be wet, but fuck ! She was soaked! If she got to work, she’d be coming with Theo in less than a minute. Fuck!

Belle took a deep breath. She kept her hand still. Later, when she was alone in her apartment, she’d have all the time in the world to relive this moment. Right now, this was about Theo.

When she brought her hand out of her pants, a thick gloss of arousal coated her fingers. 

Theo opened his mouth without being told. “Please,” he whispered. “Oh, please , Mistress!”

Begging for her. On his knees. Jerking off to the thought of making her happy with him. God, she would have a lot to think about later tonight.

With her clean hand, Belle brushed Theo’s hair behind his ears. There was silver at his temple, shining in the darkness like a hidden star. She cupped his cheek and lifted his chin and placed her dripping fingers on his tongue. 

His lips closed around her. He jerked frantically as he began to come. Belle kept her hands on Theo, holding his head against her middle and lightly gagging him with her fingers.

“ Yes , sweetheart.” She rocked her body along with his. Clenching, throbbing pleasure pulsed through her veins and she had to press her legs together to contain it. “Come for me, Theo. Come with my taste on your lips!”

He obeyed. Belle watched him, and he was so beautiful . His face screwed up, rigid and anguished. All the tension in his body--and hopefully all the tension in his heart, all the pain he had come here trying to express--gathered together at once. For a breathless moment, it stayed on his face, in the furrow of his brow, in the tightness of his jaw. Then, Theo let out a ragged sob, and everything expelled out of him. He shuddered and shook and Belle held him through it all.

“Good.” She stroked his hair and rocked him back and forth. “That was so good, Theo. You are so good.”  

It didn’t surprise her that he was crying. How long had it been since anyone had told Theo Gold that he was good? Since he had encountered any tenderness in his life? From the rumors about her landlord, he hadn’t dated in well over a decade. How long had it been since he’d had sex with a woman? Or even been close with one? How long had he been alone?

“I’m sorry.” The muffled whimper came from below her waist. “I’m so sorry, Mistress.”

“No,” she soothed him. “No, my Theo, you have nothing to be sorry for.”

“But--” he broke away to look up at her. Filled with tears, his eyes were even wider and deeper than before. If she fell into his eyes, she would never hit the bottom.

The thought didn’t bother her at all. 

“Shh.” She took his face in both hands, wiped his tears away with her thumbs. “You’re okay. You’re okay, Theo.”

“But, Mistress…” He looked down at the ground, at her boots. 

At the small spurt of white fluid that dotted the black leather. 

Desire rose in a straight line up her body, like the burst of a flame thrower. It consumed her from head to toe. So. His underwear had caught most of his come, but some had escaped. Just a little bit. Just enough to drive them both wild. 

“Oh, Theo.” Without her meaning it to, her voice had lowered by at least an octave. “My dear Theo. Well, that’s far from a bad thing. It was exactly what I wanted you to do. But it is a mess, sweetheart. I think you need to clean it up.”

Eyes closing, Theo bowed his head. He had never gotten up off his knees, and now he crawled on the ground to properly face her.  His bound wrists pressed into the floor as he groveled. As much as Belle wanted to lift up her Theo, she couldn’t deny how lovely he looked in this position.

His breath shook. His body trembled. And still he bent down even lower, and licked his own come off of her boot. 

It was too much. Belle couldn’t bear it anymore. She dropped to her knees and scooped him up into her arms. Slowly, gently, she took his hands and untied the loose knots at his wrists. 

“So good,” she whispered. “You’re so good, my darling.”

Theo was still shaking. He wrapped his arms around her, buried his face in the crook of her neck. She held him tightly. Together, they stayed huddled on the blue carpet, safe in a world of their own creation.

After a few minutes, Theo pulled away. He sat up straighter, resting his back against the base of the bench.

“Thank you.” His breathing was calmer now. His voice was steady. “Thank you, Miss French.”  

Her lips quirked up. “You always could have called me Belle, you know. And I think now, I’m really going to have to insist on it.” 

A soft exhale, almost a chuckle. “As you wish, Belle.”

He turned to face her. His tears had dried. The soft, sated, vulnerable look of subspace was fading away from his expression. But he wasn’t as sharp as he had been when he’d come in here. Ghosts still haunted the darkness of his eyes, but he looked more at peace now. He looked happier.

“Belle,” Theo said. “Are your clients allowed to kiss you?”

“No,” she answered. Then Belle pushed in, soft as the brush of a feather, to meet his lips with hers.

It was a small kiss, barely a touch. But if a new day started with nothing but a gray haze on the horizon, maybe something big could start with a small kiss.

She was the first to break the kiss; she had to check in. His face was soft again, almost dreamy. He looked happy. Maybe hopeful.

 “Mr. Gold,” Belle tried, “are you allowed to kiss your tenants?”

“Probably not,” he said. And then he leaned over and kissed her.

This was a more definite kiss. He held her cheek, as she had for him so many times today. His hands were so large, and so warm. Their lips moved together, then opened up for each other. His tongue slipped inside her mouth. She could taste her wetness, mingled with the taste of him . Her desire mixed with Theo’s own heat and will--oh God!

Belle pushed herself away from him. She couldn’t do this. He was a client. It was his first time. They’d spent the last hour with him baring his soul to her and doing everything she said. Aftercare was supposed to be about helping the client get back to the real world. It would only confuse and maybe damage Theo if they couldn’t let go of the illusion. She never should have done a session with someone she already knew, already felt so fondly towards, already wanted so much. 

This was a mistake.

Scrambling to her feet, Belle looked around for Theo’s cane. She handed it to him, and helped him get off the floor. Then she opened the armoire and pulled out the wet wipes and a trash can. She set them on the bench and headed for the door.

“You should get dressed.” She didn’t look at him. “I’ll meet you out in the other room.”

When she dared to glance at Theo, his beautiful eyes were a mixture of confusion and resignation. He was still in his underwear, but his posture had gone rigid. The hard lines of Mr. Gold were back in his face.

“Of course,” was all he said. “Thank you, Miss French.”

****

Gold dressed quickly, with the same thoughtless motions he used every morning. He didn’t feel any different, not anymore. He should have known this wouldn’t work. It was a waste, a fucking waste. Waste of time, waste of money, waste of hope.

It was just as he had feared. The dominatrix had taken him and reduced him to putty in her hands. He had shown her his rawest self, and now that the session was over, she was going to leave him. Drop him, abandon him. 

Just like everyone else he had ever been vulnerable for. 

Gold bit down on his tongue. That wasn’t fair to Belle and he knew it. It was nothing personal. This was her job. He had paid for so much of her time and her expertise. He had gotten as much as they had ever agreed upon, and now the deal was complete. She probably had another appointment scheduled.

A shot of anger flared up in him, at the thought of any other person being near Belle, that there was even a chance of someone else sharing the closeness that she had given to him. He knew he wasn’t special. There was nothing about him that she couldn’t find in a hundred other clients--or even other men. Men who were handsome and young and charming enough to get her attention without having to pay for it. 

He let out a long breath and began to put on his tie. He couldn’t be angry with Belle. He should be grateful that he was able to pay for this experience, that she had taken him as a client at all. She was very good at what she did. All Gold wanted was for it to keep on going. 

Fully dressed, as armored as he could be to face a cold and uncaring world, Theo Gold opened the door into the pale blue room. 

Belle was sitting in the wingback chair, staring into space. Her lovely black riding boots were on either side of the footstool in front of her. Gold had a fleeting image of himself on that stool. Below his mistress, between her legs, doing everything she commanded, everything he could think of to bring her pleasure.

He banished the thought with an anguished dose of reality. She was a dominatrix, not a prostitute. Despite the lines they had tiptoed around today, he couldn’t expect her to treat him like her lover. Even if he scheduled with “Lacey” again, he would never be able to do everything he wanted.

“Hey there.” Belle stood up when she saw him lingering in the doorway. Was he crazy, or did her smile seem sad?

She poured a glass of water from the round little pitcher on the table. When she handed it to him, her fingers brushed over his for just a moment. He drank, grateful to have something to do. Grateful to have an excuse to spend just a few more minutes with her. 

“We have some time,” she said. “Would you like to have a seat? Talk about the session?”

“Why?” It was hardly a word, more an expression of utter bitterness. 

Belle pressed her lips together. She seemed so different in this room. She wasn’t in control here, but neither was he. They were just two people, lost and floundering. Blindly fumbling to try to find what would make them whole. 

“Sometimes it helps people, to talk after a session. We can discuss what you liked, what you didn’t care for. What you might want to do in future sessions?”

He heard the question. But he couldn’t give her the answer he wanted. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

He couldn’t go through with this again. He couldn’t bear to leave her again. It was better to feel nothing. Maybe it would have been better if he had never come here at all. Whether she was Belle French or Lacey Rose, Gold could never see her again.

“I’m just going to go,” he said. He turned away from her, and went to the door.

“No, wait!” Belle cried. 

This time, she stayed on her side of the room. She didn’t put her hand over his. All the same, Gold stopped. 

He didn’t speak, he couldn’t.

“H-Have you ever had a hamburger at Granny’s Diner? In Storybrooke?”

Gold opened his mouth, but it took a moment before words could come. “Yes,” he managed. “They’re the only good thing on the menu.”

“I think so too!” Belle’s voice was thick with more emotion than the subject really called for. “Everyone raves about the lasagna, but it’s really not--anyway.” With an awkward chuckle, she stopped herself. “Would you like to have a burger sometime? With me?”

He stared at her. “In public?” he asked. “In Storybrooke, where we both live?”

She bit her lip and nodded. “I’ll even pay,” she offered. “So you know it’s a real date.”

“A date?” Gold’s heart pounded in his chest. “With you?”

Another nod. “If you want.”

“Yes,” he whispered. “Yes, Belle. I would love to go on a date with you.”