HANSEL 2
An Erotic Fairy Tale
ELLA JAMES
CHAPTER ONE
Lucas
I don’t want to hear her scurry through my room, so I start pacing. My bare feet on the damp floor mask the sound of her retreat: stride, slap, stride, slap, stride, slap. I try to let it occupy my mind.
My heart beats harder, faster—till it’s throbbing in my chest.
Her words swim in the ether of my memory.
“I think we would be good together.”
“Please don’t make me go. I’ll do things your way.”
“I want to do different things than you do. Things to give you pleasure.”
I don’t need her...what is it? Her care? Consideration? Judgment?
I don’t need her fucking kindness.
Who the fuck does this Leah knock-off think she is?
“I’ve been fucked before. Just not in a while. A long while.”
*
“It might hurt you, too.”
“I don’t mind. A-at least I…don’t think so.”
I stop pacing, look over at the bath.
“I’m trying to bathe you, the way you did me. Unless you think you’re not a dirty man?”
I can see the way her lips tilt, the way her eyes crinkle behind my mask as she teases me. As if my domineering manner and my fucked up desires don’t bother her at all.
I’ve got her dressed to look like Leah—covered up her face and barking orders at her—and this girl climbed onto my lap and tried to just…be normal.
Again, my mind screams: Like Leah.
If Leah were here, she wouldn’t keep a safe submissive distance. I don’t think I could convince her not to bathe me. She would do it just because she wanted to. Because she cared. If she cared, a little voice points out. Deep down inside my chest, I know she wouldn’t—not anymore; not ten years later—but this isn’t real life here. It’s fucking fantasy.
I fuck girls who look like Leah. Dress them in her favorite color—royal blue—and make them bend to my sick will so I can get off. I need pain; I need control. It keeps me breathing.
And while they whip and claw me, while they let me tie them up and torment them with pleasure, I dream them into Leah. Every fucking one of them is Leah. Leah would whisper if I asked her, never speaking at full-volume. Leah would wear my mask. Leah would make me bleed if I begged.
It isn’t true. She’d probably run screaming. But I need the delusion. I require the ruse. Without it, life is…so hollow.
I stop pacing again. I tuck my chin to my chest and look down at my pecs. I can see her hand dragging the bath cloth down my six-pack.
“You don’t know how to listen to my orders.”
“I can do better.”
I lunge for the bathroom door and fly into my room.
“Hello?”
I look around: empty.
I take long strides into the living area, where I turn a circle. “Are you here?”
I run into the bathroom, closet, kitchen, and I’m darting to the chair wedged in the counter, where she left her bag. I pull the garments out and smell her fruity scent. I pull the garments out, but I don’t see her mask.
I turn around and open up the top, left cabinet on this end of the kitchen. Inside is my security monitor. I turn it on and flip hastily through camera views, my body stiffening each time I see a lone female.
“Be here, be here,” I whisper.
I fucked up—I see it so clearly now.
This one isn’t wrong at all; she reminds me too much of Leah. On first encounter, it was too damn, much. Her kindness burns, but isn’t that the point? I don’t take them on for pleasure. I need the subs for pain, so she was perfect.
I take a deep breath as I spot her, walking briskly down Hall 4.
I don’t question how I know it’s her; the swing of her arms, the length of her stride, stand out to me on instinct.
I glance frantically around the living area for pants and find a pair of leathers tossed over the coat rack. I only wear them on stage—usually. I jerk them on, and out the door I go.
My private hall is empty, so I fly through it. Rush into the hall that’s parallel: Hall 6, and move like lightning.
I have to catch her. Long strides, two turns, one of them through a private, staff-only cut-through.
My chest is tight with anxiety by the time I reach Hall 4. I’m panting as I think of all the ways I can discipline this girl.
Leah.
I’m going to call her Leah as soon as I can get her back and spread her legs.
Leah.
She is mine.
I want her, need her, plan to keep her.
At last, for a moment, I’m behind her. Blonde hair flies in her wake like a superhero cape. The way her arms swing—God, those hands.
Leah.
Leah.
I open my mouth to yell, and it’s as if she knows; at that instant, she starts sprinting. Running for the door at the end of the hall, as if she absolutely cannot wait to get out of here.
I watch her reach up to her head and pull the mask off as she moves. From behind, I see her toss it as she pushes through the thick metal door. Clack. It’s swung open, and I run behind her.
She starts down the stairs to the back parking lot.
I call out, but she’s through the door.
I lengthen my strides and burst through a few seconds behind her: shirtless and wild-eyed, with my hands reached out in case I find her standing stationary at the top of the stairs.
That’s the position that I’m in when my world freezes.
When I see her, moving horizontally across the parking lot, maskless, and with one hand raised up to her cheek.
When I see her weeping as she runs.
My eyes can’t accept it. My feet stop. I can hear her sobbing.
I know that sound. I may not know her body, but I know the sound of her tears.
Leah.
It’s yelled. It echoes through my mind.
“Leah. Leah.” Whispered words.
I grab onto the railing. Grip it hard as my legs go numb and cease to hold my weight.
That’s Leah walking toward a row of cars.
Leah is leaving.
She’s crying.
She’s fucking here!
It’s a miracle.
A tragedy.
A fantasy: gone bad or come to life?
I sink into a crouch and slam my palm over my mouth before I turn around and stagger back inside, where I’m sick on the hardwood floor, aglow in torch light.
CHAPTER TWO
Leah
I hang up the phone and pull my legs up in the chair out on my balcony. Four days after Lana’s wedding, three days after the rest of my family has flown home, and I’m still at the MGM Grand Casino.
I finally did it. Just now booked a ticket for tomorrow. At three-thirty, I’ll be flying from here to Atlanta, going back to my life.
I inhale deeply. Hug my legs.
I want to feel okay, but ever since Monday afternoon, I just…can’t.
It’s so hard for me to comprehend what happened; sometimes I feel like I’m dreaming. I found Hansel. That alone is almost unfathomable. I fond Hansel in Vegas, in a sex club—that he owns—rather than in a police uniform, on a fire man’s ladder, at the blackjack tables, in a sports car.
The boy I knew ten years ago was endlessly giving, always funny, patient, and kind. He took care of me. So I’m still tripping over the idea that he owns a place where women—and men—are paid for having sex in front of an audience.
Yes, I understand that it’s consensual, that it’s a lifestyle choice some people enjoy, but it’s weird. It’s wrong, in this scenario. Hansel is my hero. And heroes don’t belong in sex cl
ubs. They just don’t.
Heroes belong at home with a wife and kids, or a nice dog and a fishing pole and a good book, or a grill out on the deck. I’m not saying he can’t have kinky sex. I’ve got nothing against kinky. I think I might even like it kinky. That is not my problem.
My problem is the décor. What the fuck? I just don’t understand.
My problem is the casting call for sex partners.
My problem is that when I stepped outside the lines, he shoved me out the door. I made myself hurt him, and when I stopped playing by the script—when I started to let loose a little, to act normal—he couldn’t handle it.
Why not?
I’m not sure I can even handle knowing.
A small, cowardly part of me wishes I could forget I even saw him. Laughable, of course. I got to touch him, feel his hands on me. His mouth on me. I heard his laugh. I was there with Hansel, after ten long years of wanting nothing more than him. How could I forget that? How could I want to?
I…fuck, I don’t know. Can I say I love him? Is that insane? It’s been ten years, plus the soul-sucking experience of Monday afternoon, and still…I want him with both mind and body.
I reach onto the table beside me, grab a chocolate-covered strawberry, and pop it into my mouth. I eat a few more while I stare out at the hazy Vegas sunset, streaking in between the billboards and buildings.
I’ve been sitting out here almost all day and night since leaving The Forest Monday evening. Sitting out here, trying to tell myself to close this door. Cut my losses and go home.
He didn’t know I was me, but if he had? I’ve got no reason to assume he’d care. I’ve got every reason to assume he wouldn’t want to see me at all, given an option. Or if he did, he wouldn’t want more than a ten minute hi-how-are-ya. He wouldn’t see the two of us as having anything in common anymore. I don’t know for sure, of course, but that’s what I think would happen.
So here I sit, stuffing my face and avoiding the thought that I’m leaving tomorrow. Avoiding the extreme….the extreme disappointment, I think as tears start to flow.
I was right there with him, and I didn’t play it right. I couldn’t make him want to keep me there.
I dreamed of that for years, and it was…wrong. So wrong. So disturbing, with the decorations like the ones at Mother’s house; the way he wanted me to hurt him. Maybe the worst part is, it makes me wonder about… fuck! I start to sob.
Why did he want me to do those things? What does he need with a…submissive woman? Why isn’t he married?
Why aren’t you, my conscience whispers.
He should be happy. He shouldn’t be lonely. He seemed lonely.
I should have talked to him—as me.
It wouldn’t have mattered.
It might have.
Go back, then.
But I can’t.
I know I can’t. It’s one thing to be rejected when he didn’t know who he was rejecting, but if he looked at me like that, knowing I’m Leah…
I just know I couldn’t handle it. I’d be looking for pills before I even made it to the airport.
I dash inside and throw myself on my bed, where I hug my pillow and cry hysterically until I fall asleep.
When I wake, it’s ten o’clock. I feel no better. Only quieter. More resigned. More disillusioned.
The heavy questions bump through my head, making themselves known to me in loud whispers despite my refusal to acknowledge them.
This is the end of the story for Hansel? This is his happily ever after?
What did you expect, Leah? Where is yours?
But I’m me, and my failings and my longings are not news. His are.
I get into the bath and dump a mountain of bath crystals atop my legs, and sit there in the hot water until the room stinks so strongly of lavender, I worry I might puke.
Then I dress for a night out.
Where am I going? I have no idea. I promise myself as I ride the elevator from my room on the eighth floor down to the lobby that I’m not looking for pills. I don’t need an oxy or a Xanax or anything else small and swallowable to get through the next fifteen hours. Alcohol should do just fine.
The elevator spits me out in one of the massive corridors, an extra-wide hallway with three-story ceilings, two-story artwork, dozens of outrageously themed alcoves, hundreds of little, name-brand storefronts, and so many tourists I can barely see the sparkling marble floor.
It’s hopping tonight—not as busy as the weekend, but still alarmingly crowded. I push my body through the throng, aiming for one of the help desks. When I get there, I ask a younger guy in a uniform for advice on a good bar inside the casino. If I’m getting smashed, I probably shouldn’t branch out far.
“What kind of bar?” He looks me over in a way I’m pretty sure he thinks is discreet, but is actually pretty obvious.
I shrug, struggling not to seem bitchy. “An interesting one?”
He pulls out a casino pamphlet and points to something on the second page. “Try X-Ray Machine. There’s a fight there tonight, and a strip club in the downstairs behind the ring, but if you don’t go to the basement, you won’t run into the traffic, and upstairs is a nice place. There’s a whole section just for trivia.”
I like trivia, and it will keep my mind occupied, so I get walking directions and head off to the chunk of space on the rear side of the building.
A snazzy, flashing, X-ray Machine-style sign greets me from the far end of the rear hall, and I lengthen my strides.
What will I have tonight? Lemon drop martinis? Vodka and tonic? How drunk do I want to get? I think I know the answer there…
At rehab, much is said about how anything can become your new addiction, but let’s be honest: hangovers suck. I’m not going to fall into the bottle after one night of forget-my-troubles drinking.
I slow down a little, and follow a lit-up, red arrow down some stairs and into the entrance of the X-Ray Machine before I realize I’ve accidentally gone down to the basement. I walk back up the stairs, go a few feet past the red arrow, and find the main entrance. It’s a popular place, with the crowd spilling out into the hallway. I make my way through the sea of shoulders and elbows, bypass the bar, and opt for a booth.
Sure, it’s kind of selfish. I’m only a party of one, but I want privacy tonight. To justify my decision, I order a large Caesar salad and a Dr. Pepper to gobble down before I start my lemon drop martinis. Then I rifle through the little plastic basket of crayons, stamps, and other random shit beside me, finally pulling out a small, plastic keypad. I look around for TVs and find the ceiling littered with them.
Mmmm, the trivia right now is about literature. Perfect.
Except not perfect. Because the section we’re on? Fairy tales. I’m not even kidding. I answer a few questions about Snow White and Little Red Riding Hood, even though thinking about any of those stories makes me think of him—the way he used to modify them to amuse me.
Eventually, I put the clicker down and stare numbly at my salad, unable to go back up to my room and equally unable to take a cab to The Forest. I’m leaving tomorrow. I will have to put this chapter of my life behind me or my life will start to fall apart.
Somewhere inside my head, a little voice whispers it’s already there, but I ignore it. I’m a businesswoman, damnit. I have an app. A bestselling app. I pay my own apartment rent in Georgia, and I go to spin class. So what if I don’t ever date? I know my vag has cobwebs, okay? Maybe I’m quirky, and the closest I’ve come to a crush in ten years has been that maybe-a-guy, maybe-a-girl author M. Pierce, because writer guys remind me of one story-telling guy—my hand-holder and fairy tale designer. But I live a perfectly good life.
Liar.
I finish my drink, desperate to shut up that annoying little voice, and when the waiter stops back by, I order another.
Life is pain. That’s all I know, I think, a little drunkenly. You know why I got addicted to oxycodone? Because I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t sleep, because I would look
up at my ceiling in the dark, and worry I was trapped in whatever room I was in. Sometimes I had dreams, and I would wake up the next morning on the floor, beside the baseboard. Only instead of a little hole, and Hansel on the other side, my wall would be perfectly intact.
Just like my life now. There’s no drama in my life right now, but I’m finding the drama doesn’t have to be linear, occurring right here on this time plane. The past can find you anywhere you go.
I stand up, suddenly over-hot and antsy. I’ve got to go. I need to get out of here. Not out of the bar; out of the city. I want to go home—to Georgia.
Suddenly, I feel angry at how much time I’ve wasted wanting…what? A teenage boy? I get out of the booth, and I try to convince myself I’m in love with a memory. The man who bathed me in the tub Monday: I don’t even know him. I don’t miss him. I don’t want him. Edgar is no one to me, and Hansel is long gone.
I’m not brave enough to go to him as “me,” with the mask off, so check mate. Why am I still here?
I start toward the door, and I’m mid-stride when I hear “Edgar.” It’s followed directly by the words “ass kicked.”
I whirl around, trying to figure out who said it, and find two bouncers standing guard beside the stairs that lead down to the fights.
I step over to them, feeling bold and glittery thanks to my martinis. “Excuse me—did I hear you guys say Hansel?”
“Hansel?” One frowns.
Oops. “Edgar, I mean. Did you say something about Edgar?”
The confusion on their faces smooths away, and one of them smiles. “You know Edgar? Forest Edgar?”
My throat seizes up, so I can’t draw in air. I manage a nod.
“Decent guy,” one of them says, as if that’s surprising. “He’s downstairs kicking ass at charity fight night. It’s an open night, any walk ons. He just showed up, and he’s good.”
The taller guy rolls his muscled shoulders. “You gotta expect it, you know. He likes to dominate.”
He says ‘dominate’ in a joking tone, but I’m hardly listening.
“Do you mean he’s fighting?”
“Yeah, babe.” Smirk. “You wanna see?”
“So he’s downstairs?”