Chapter 104
Eliza Papodopoli looked like she might have been cast as the aggressive, bitchy frenemy in a teenage drama about rich youths with too much time and not enough sense. When Marc opened the door, she was posing outside in the hallway wearing a long, fashionable brown overcoat that fell all the way down to her darker brown, heeled leather boots. She had her chin slightly up, looking down the corridor as if she expected something to come slithering out of one of the other doors, and she was still wearing the thin, brown leather gloves that matched her boots.
“Good afternoon, Eliza,” Marc said, putting on the smile he reserved for clients that needed to be treated like they were close confidants, even if they couldn’t be trusted further than he could toss them. “Bienvenue chez moi. Please, come in.”
“I was expecting something a little more… up,” Eliza said as she strutted past Marc’s open gesture, handing him her heavy, but trendy, file bag and then beginning to unbutton her coat. “All of my research says that you should be living in a penthouse downtown, Mr Fornier.”
“Ah, well, I find that I am much more comfortable when I’m not throwing money out of my windows at a view that is more city than natural,” Marc said diplomatically as he set her bag down and then did the gentlemanly act of helping her out of her coat. Underneath it, Eliza was wearing a navy A-line mini dress shot through with silver threading as an accent. It hugged her well and was clearly tailored for her, though Marc felt like it didn’t quite go with her knee-high boots and gloves. The peak of cleavage at the deep, narrow neckline and the amount of sheer hose-covered leg she was showing made her outfit a dance of what would be appropriate in an office setting versus a fundraiser dinner.
“Well, that’s disappointing,” Eliza said, looking over her shoulder at him as she peeled off her gloves. “I do like a view.”
“As do I,” Marc said. “But I prefer mine to be of mountains, or the Mediterranean. Staring at a cityscape… Cela n'éveille pas les sens.”
“Mm,” Eliza hummed, trying to hide the fact that she didn’t understand him.
Marc had her number, as one of his former colleagues liked to say. Not just because of her very minor slip with the shibari corset under her clothes the last time they’d met, but because he simply had more experience than her. In business, and in this particular trading of measured strikes to feel out a potential opponent. She had a particularly dangerous combination of powerful nepotism and training, to be sure, and a will that seemed to be the equal of her father (something that many blessed with nepotism lacked, being replaced by entitlement), but Marc had seen her ilk before. They came out of the top business schools hungry and arrogant, but with just enough sense to be on guard, though often not quite on guard enough to avoid every possible pitfall like they plan to.
Eliza worked just a little too hard to demand respect, even if she wasn’t verbally demanding it. She was hungry and smart, but she hadn’t succeeded at anything yet, so her confidence was a construct. A sharp, well-constructed one, but still a front behind which the truth about her would still be built.
She started to walk down the short hallway into his condo proper, heels tapping against his hardwood floors, but Marc cleared his throat pointedly. “Guests in my house remove their shoes, Eliza,” he said. “Even very nice Garavanis.”
Eliza stopped in her tracks, frowning back at Marc, narrowing her eyes slightly. Then she seemed to decide that it wasn’t worth making an issue over, and she came back to him. He offered her a hand before she got to him, which seemed to annoy her more, and she used it to support her balance as she raised one foot and unzipped the boot down the side before peeling it off. Then came the other boot, and when she lowered her bare feet to the floor, she lost about three inches of height. Then she handed Marc her boots. “I hope you have something halfway decent to drink,” she said before turning and heading back into his apartment.
“I’m French, not an American tourist,” Marc chuckled as he set her boots down neatly and picked up her bag, following her into his home.
“Oh,” Eliza said once she’d entered the open concept lower level, looking around at the warmly lit kitchen, the stairs headed up to his loft area, and the comfortably appointed sitting room. “Alright, so it’s nicer on the inside.”
“Isn’t anything worthwhile like that, my dear?” Marc asked as he deposited her bag on the kitchen island and went to his wine rack. “What are you feeling on this chilly afternoon? Red, or white? I also have a delightful tawny Port I haven’t cracked open yet, if you’re feeling a little more adventurous?”
“White,” she said as she wandered towards the sitting room, looking around curiously at his decor. “This is a business meeting, not a chance for you to get me drunk.”
“Eliza, my dear, if that were my goal, I would have asked you to a full tasting,” Marc smirked. “White it is.” He quickly broke out a bottle of Viognier, then went into his fridge and started to put together a board.
“What are you doing?” Eliza asked, padding over to him on her pantyhose-covered feet.
“Preparing refreshments,” Marc chuckled.
She came right over beside him, frowning as she watched him cubing some gruyere cheese, then looking up at him suspiciously before she went over to the kitchen island. When he turned around, a small wooden board of cheese and nuts ready to match with the white wine, she had taken a seat. Her files were pulled out of her bag and stacked neatly in front of her, but she was sitting with her fingers folded together stiffly. Marc set the board down, offered her one of the glasses and then clinked his with hers and took a sip.
“So,” he said, circling around to a seat across the corner of the island from her, mind flashing to the last woman he’d sat here with - Felicity, eating chocolate-covered strawberries, right before he tied her up. “Your father has certainly set an interesting-”
“Before we start the clock,” she interrupted. “We need to talk about… personal matters.”
“Ah,” Marc said, raising an eyebrow, but leaving the floor open for her to continue. He hadn’t been planning on bringing it up himself, but he’d had a feeling she would. It was a fault in that facade she presented, after all. A fault that, as far as she knew, he was the only one who had noticed. Someone older, with more experience, might have let it go - especially because Marc had noticed it, offered a small amount of aid, and moved on, which meant it wasn’t something he found truly notable, surprising or scandalous. Her youth, however, made it bigger in her mind. Bigger than it needed to be.
“You overstepped,” she said.
The problem was that Eliza knew just how attractive she was, and she wasn’t used to someone who clearly recognised that and didn’t care.
Marc had two lovers who were more than fulfilling his needs, both sexual and intellectual. He didn’t want or need anything from Eliza or her father. She, truly, had no leverage over him except for the vague threat of violence that her last name was connected with. Not that Marc thought that she thought that way, but he certainly did when analysing the people he was dealing with. Especially when he was strong-armed into a business relationship.
Staying silent, with a mildly expectant look on his face, was seizing power in the conversation. She had demanded to set this topic, and now she had opened with an accusation. How many people in Eliza’s life were likely to start stammering an apology or become defensive? How many would try to appease her, or soothe her? Or, even, attack right back.
So Marc held onto the power she had given him, providing her with nothing to work with. It was even better than saying, ‘Please, explain the joke,’ because it meant she felt like she needed to explain herself.
Of course, Eliza also wasn’t going to immediately collapse in on herself. That would be too easy.
“Well?” she asked.
“Je suis désolé,” Marc said. “You did give Florence a call, yes? She is usually very accommodating.”
“No, that’s not-” Eliza said with a scowl, clamping down with her teeth before she stuttered. She really was quite cute when she was annoyed. “You assumed that I was- You spoke to me about something very private, Mr Fornier. It was forward.”
“Oh, my dear,” Marc sighed, flashing her a small smile. “That is true. But wearing a shibari corset in a way that makes it visible to others is, in a sense, forcing them into your indulgence. I simply understood what I was seeing. If you walked out of a bathroom with toilet paper stuck to your shoe, or your skirt tucked into the waistband of your underwear, would you prefer me to say nothing?”
Eliza blinked rapidly, her mouth opening and then closing silently as she tried to process Marc’s verbal prodding and poking. He wasn’t insulting her at all, but his reversal had been like a trained Greco-Roman wrestler’s grappling, shifting and flipping the situation on its head.
“That’s not what it was,” she finally said. “And it wasn’t… visible. It was barely noticeable.”
“Except to someone who understood what he was seeing,” Marc said softly. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Eliza. In fact, I applaud you for indulging yourself. Many people do not take the time to understand their deepest wants and desires, and they end up stiff and dried out by the time they are my age. Or so repressed that when they finally begin to explore those urges, they explode in unfortunate ways. You did contact my friend Florence, I hope? If a friendly note is so embarrassing, I wouldn’t want you to be approached by someone who would see your indulgence as an invitation.”
Eliza glared at Marc, who took a sip of his drink as he met her glare with friendly apathy.
“Yes, I did,” Eliza eventually muttered. “She was very… informative. I have an appointment to see her workshop this week.”
“Excellent,” Marc said, snagging a macadamia nut from the board and popping it into his mouth.
Eliza shook her head at Marc, looking at him like he had two heads. “That’s all you have to say?”
“Should I have something else to say on the matter?” he asked.
She blinked hard again, a couple of times. Then she shook her head again.
“My dear,” Marc offered. “I do hope-”
“Stop calling me your ‘dear,’” she snapped.
“Eliza,” Marc corrected himself. “I do hope that, however you have been exploring, you have not run into the seedier element that is often associated with the community that you are touching upon. Whatever you might be… expecting, I assure you, we need not speak of this any more. Or, if you do have questions, I’d be happy to answer anything without any need for… demonstrations, let’s call them. Or ‘payback.’”
She huffed out a breath and then drained her wine glass in one go. Marc refilled it when she gestured for more with the empty glass.
“Are you…” she said, but hesitated.
“I am a Dominant,” Marc offered, bridging the gap between them now that she’d cooled off a little and shown a modicum of vulnerability. Reward was as important as punishment, after all. “My particular interests lie more in play with the B and the D of BDSM, with only mild teasing of Masochism. And while I will admit to some… eventful experiences in my youth, I much prefer play within a dedicated, trusting partnership.”
“I… see,” Eliza said. “So you don’t go to, like… dungeons.”
“No,” Marc chuckled. “Not unless you count stopping in to ask for references for toymakers, leatherworkers and other craftspeople.”
“Is that how you met this- your friend Florence?” she asked.
“It is,” Marc nodded after taking another sip of his wine. “Florence and I have known each other for, well, over a decade now, I would think. She is the pre-eminent ropemaker for the entire province, and likely half of upstate New York, and she was quite the shibari master in her prime. Unfortunately, her hands and fingers aren’t what they used to be, so she leaves the demonstrations and trade shows to her apprentices.”
“Jesus,” Eliza muttered under her breath, shaking her head incredulously.
“He’s got nothing to do with it, Eliza,” Marc smirked and winked at her.
She almost laughed. Almost.
“So you’re in a- what, a couple, with your… submissive?” she asked instead. “Like, monogamy?”
“It’s a little more complicated than that,” Marc smiled softly. “I- Well, I have been seeing my primary submissive for several years now, and we have a very amenable relationship of trust and indulgence. We’ve played, very occasionally, with a third. Both with a Domme and with another submissive. And, more recently, I have entered into a second Dom-sub relationship with another dear friend who is… Well, we’ll say exploring.”
“So you’re not monogamous, but you’re…”
“Selective,” Marc said. “And uninterested in throw-away encounters. So whatever you, or if I might be so bold as to suggest your exploration partner, may have worried about when it came to this encounter and what I had discovered, I ask you to trust me. I am not interested in using it to leverage you in any way.”
Eliza sighed softly through her nose, almost imperceptible to hear, but Marc could see some of the tension leave her shoulders. Not all of it, she was still a little bundle of Italian passion and nerves, but she wasn’t on edge. She took another gulp of her wine and then picked out a slice of cheese and took a dainty bite of it, raising her eyebrows in mild surprise at the complimentary tastes.
“My girlfriend,” she said after swallowing the cheese. “We- I’m- I need you to promise that this isn’t something you’ll tell my Father, Mr Fornier.”
“I won’t say a word, Eliza,” Marc promised, though he felt guilty about it, even though he wasn’t lying. “And, please, call me Marc.”
“Marc,” she nodded. “I’m… I don’t know,” she continued after a breath. “Not gay. But… not bisexual, either. I find most people… unattractive. Or unappealing, I guess. But my girlfriend and I are solid, even if I have to be careful about anyone in my family, or the family, finding out about us. She broke out handcuffs this one time, giggling about playing cops and robbers, and it- It was really good. So we started, well…”
“Researching,” Marc offered. “Experimenting.”
“Right,” Eliza nodded. “And she’s definitely more Dominant, at least in the bedroom. And I’m more…”
Marc gave her time. For a woman like Eliza Papodopoli, saying it to someone who was essentially a stranger was probably difficult. But also an important step of self-acceptance.
“...Submissive,” she finally said. “In the bedroom. With her. Only in the bedroom.”
“What you want, and how comfortable you are, in different relationships can be variable,” Marc said. “It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if you feel protected with your girlfriend in a way you haven’t before with other partners, which allows you to be more vulnerable with her in new ways, in private. I can certainly tell you that I have met some very sweet, soft-spoken Doms who enjoy some shockingly loud and near-violent sexual escapades, and some extremely gregarious, outspoken submissives who desperately want to be made to be silent and softly told what to do. Not everyone acts their opposite ‘in the bedroom,’ but it is not uncommon at all in our mutual circle of experimenters.”
She nodded, running her tongue along the inside of her cheek for a moment. “Like the mega-rich CEO who likes getting humiliated and shit, right?”
“That is a stereotype that comes from reality, yes,” Marc smirked. “I believe the psychology behind it comes from an element of power reversion - someone who commands billions of dollars, or tens of thousands or more people, so often requires a monumental shift in the opposite direction to feel the release of that particular kind of indulgence.”
Eliza nodded slowly, but frowned. “Are you psychoanalysing me, now?”
“No, no,” Marc chuckled, shaking his head. “I don’t know nearly enough about you to do that, and we aren’t interested in any sort of play that doing so would serve a purpose. I’m merely outlining the likely psychology of the stereotype.”
“Right,” Eliza nodded, then swallowed sharply as she suddenly blushed, though it only showed on her neck due to her foundation. “What would you say the psychology would be behind my girlfriend being a lesbian, but she says her biggest orgasms come from getting fucked by a man?”
It was Marc’s turn to blink in surprise, and he shook his head once to wrap his head around that one. “Well,” he said slowly. “Without… any other details, and please remember this is entirely a guess… I would not be surprised to learn that she suffered some sort of sexual assault or abuse as a child at the hands of a man, and no matter how much therapy she necessarily goes through for that, certain nobs and switches have been scattered in her inner self because of it. The important thing, if that’s the situation, is her choices around that fact. If she wants to be a lesbian and never have sex with a man again, then you can both simply see it as a challenge to strive to find new ways to pleasure her and drive for greater orgasmic experiences. If, however, she claims to be a lesbian but finds herself acting out, pursuing men in inappropriate ways, then there is likely still trauma that she needs to address, and she isn’t ready for any relationship, let alone a monogamous one.”
Eliza was doing that thing with her tongue and her cheek again, nodding slowly. And then, surprisingly, a big fat tear spilt out of her left eye.
“Oh, my dear,” Marc said, quickly standing and grabbing a tissue from the box on the counter, bringing it to her.
The mob boss’s daughter accepted it, scoffing at herself scornfully and starting to dab at her eyes. “Fuck,” she said. “That’s- Fuck.”
“I’m sorry if I’ve stirred anything up,” Marc said, sitting down and patting her hand that was braced against the kitchen island.
“No, it’s-” Eliza shook her head. “It’s fine. I just- I don’t know. It’s fine. I’m fine. We just need to have a conversation, maybe.”
“I would suggest that you don’t… open the door, so to speak,” Marc said. “If what I said is the case. You can point to the door, and even knock on it and let her know that you are willing to open it with her. But you can’t make her open the door.”
“I- Well-” Eliza said, then she sighed sharply and set down the tear-stained tissue. “We should get to work.”
Marc waited a long beat, watching the young woman raise her mental walls as she resumed her perfect posture and started to glare at him again. “Of course,” he agreed and nodded. “Let’s get started.”
She took out an old-fashioned tape recorder from her bag and set it on the table. “Are you alright if I record this?” she asked. “I’d like to listen back to it for reference; it’ll be the best way for me to learn, and I’ll be asking you fewer questions in the future.”
“Certainly, Eliza,” Marc nodded. In most circumstances, he wouldn’t particularly like the idea of this meeting being recorded. Even a usual client meeting would contain some talk and planning that shouldn’t be written down, but recording this meeting in particular, dealing with auditing a criminal enterprise, was handing the Papodopoli’s a smoking gun to Marc’s involvement.
Of course, it would be the second recording of the conversation, so he wasn’t quite as concerned. And his copy would have a lot more revealing, personal information than Eliza’s.
_____
“Bienvenue chez moi.” = “Welcome to my home.”
“...Cela n'éveille pas les sens.” = “It doesn’t arouse the senses.”
“Je suis désolé,” = “I’m sorry,”
Chapter 105
“This is a fucking goldmine,” Jules said, shaking her head as she listened with one earbud and scratched notes out onto a legal pad.
Eliza had left in the late afternoon after several hours of running numbers at Marc’s kitchen island. She’d been careful - none of the businesses involved had names that Marc could use to identify them, instead with redacted and replaced descriptive names. But between the business types, the context clues from their running conversation, and the reported incomes, the Detectives were going to be able to build a running tally to chase down.
Of course, none of it was legally viable. But it was a place to start.
“More wine?” Marc offered Sinead.
The two detectives were in his sitting area, laptop between them and each listening to one earbud of their headphones as they took notes, occasionally pausing to comment to each other or ask a question. Sinead was wearing a tight pair of jeans that hugged her fit legs and, Marc had noted as he’d taken her coat, did lovely things to her ass, and she’d paired that with a loose knit sweater that he was fairly certain she was not wearing a bra underneath. She was sitting comfortably in the corner of the couch as if she’d been there multiple times before and was comfortable in her surroundings.
Not a problem at all for Marc, who wanted her to feel comfortable in his home, but it would be noteworthy to Detective Xu as well, and Marc had a feeling that Sinead wasn’t taking that into account.
Jules was dressed casually as well, but less… enticingly. Particularly compared to the last time he’d seen her. She was wearing a pair of navy sweatpants and a tank top under a zip-up sweater. The weather had turned in the afternoon, another cold spike hitting the city, and she was even wearing a pair of big, fluffy socks.
“Mm,” Sinead hummed, lifting her glass for Marc. “Thank you.”
Marc met her eyes and smiled with one of his own, and a wink that made her blush a little as he poured her another few fingers of the Port. “Jules?” he offered.
“Fuck, yeah, fine,” she sighed. “It’s too good to say no.”
Marc chuckled and circled to her other side, refilling her glass as well. “I would hope it is. It took me some effort to win this from a business associate.”
“You won it?” Sinead asked in surprise, pausing the recording to give him her full attention. “Marc, please don’t tell me you’re going to more shady poker games.”
“You mean without you?” Jules smirked at her friend.
“It was a very well-lit game, if you must know,” March chuckled, walking the bottle back over to the kitchen and topping off his own glass as well before turning to look at the two women. “And it was chess.”
“Oh, you would be one of those guys,” Jules snorted.
“One of what kind of guys?” Marc asked.
“You know,” she said. “The guy who was in the chess club in high school, then got hot afterwards.”
“Detective,” Marc said, placing his hand over his heart like he’d been wounded. “You think I’m attractive?”
“Oh, fuck off,” Jules rolled her eyes at the banter.
- - - - -
“Please, Marc,” Sinead murmured. Her eyes were practically crossed, trying to look down at where his cock was tapping against her lips while her face was pointed up to him standing over her.
Detective Xu had certainly made it clear, through her teasing as she’d been excusing herself for the evening, that she was aware of what Marc and Sinead would be getting up to. Not explicit details, obviously, but she was firmly ‘in the know’ that her friend and partner would be having sex with their one-time suspect.
Marc raised an eyebrow at Sinead’s request, and she noticed it when she glanced up at him.
“Please, Master,” she corrected herself.
“Good girl,” Marc said, running his fingers through her ginger hair to keep it out of her face. Then he shifted his hips forward slightly, allowing the head of his cock to dip between Sinead’s pursed lips for a moment as she gave it a lingering suckle and teased the tip with her tongue. She moaned softly when he pulled it back again.
Sinead was naked, kneeling on the cushioned footrest in his sitting area. The lights were dimmed low, and a set of candles nearby was putting a flickering golden glow on the proceedings. Their time together had been interrupted two evenings previously, and the preparations for his meeting earlier that day had consumed the time of both detectives. Now Sinead was sacrificing her innate urge to chase the leads he’d just provided them to indulge in her other, newfound needs.
“Tell me, Sinead,” Marc murmured. “Did it turn you on, listening to Eliza admit that she was interested in BDSM? That she is a submissive, like you?”
Sinead swallowed hard and glared up at Marc for a moment, then wiped the expression from her face as she bit her lower lip. “A little,” she admitted.
Marc pressed forward again, but this time instead of sliding his cock between her lips, he pressed it further up her face, the hot length of his shaft against her cheek and his clean-shaven testicles rubbing against her chin. She immediately kissed the underside of his cock.
“Did you picture her like this, ma petite rebelle?” he asked. “Submitting herself like you do?”
“Maybe,” Sinad said, blushing a little harder.
“To me, or to her girlfriend?”
“I don’t know what her girlfriend looks like,” Sinead said as Marc rubbed his cock against her face. It should have been a debasing act, but he could tell by the way she was breathing, by the way she kept slipping kisses in when she could, and the look in her eye, that she was loving every moment. “I barely know what she looks like, except from pictures.”
“To me, or to her girlfriend?” Marc repeated himself, pulling his cock away from her as a mild punishment for not answering.
“Both,” she replied, her lower lip sticking out just a little as she pouted.
“And who else did you think about, submitting?” Marc asked. “To me, or even to you. Or maybe you’re submitting to them.”
Now Sinead really blushed, from her chest up to her cheeks, and she glared at him again.
Marc tutted, shaking her head as he stepped away from the Detective, retrieving his wine glass from the side table and taking a sip.
“Marc,” Sinad said, asking him not to make her admit what she was thinking.
“Detective,” Marc said, still shaking his head slightly. “Lie back on the footrest. Naughty girls who keep secrets need correcting.”
She swallowed hard and bit both of her lips nervously, but quickly shifted. Marc was tempted to forgo his plan, particularly when she was on her back and pulled her knees up to either side of her chest, offering herself. It wouldn’t take much to tug that buttplug out of her, apply some lube, and start fucking her tight little ass.
But she wanted that.
And the point was to correct her, not reward her.
He reached over to the special candle and blew out the flame, lifting it carefully and swirling the melted wax a little in the container as he let it cool just slightly before stepping over to the Detective, who was watching him with wide eyes, her nerves about something new washing through her.
“Ma petite rebelle,” Marc sighed softly. “This will sting you more than it stings me.”
He leaned down and kissed her lightly on the lips, then used his free hand to make sure she was arranged appropriately, her chest and small breasts bare, along with her stomach, hips and thighs. The second candle would be used later for her back and ass cheeks.
“Would you like to tell me who you were daydreaming about, Detective?” Marc asked his red-haired submissive.
She nervously bit her lips again but shook her head as she breathed deeply.
Marc smiled and shook his head knowingly, then tipped the candle and let a drop of melty wax designed for just this sort of sexual encounter spill out and drop onto the skin right between her breasts.
Sinead sucked in a breath hard through her nose and then let out a soft, wailing moan through her closed lips.
“Good girl,” Marc said, petting her forehead with his free hand. “Or, you will be.”