Free Tied Up and Twisted by Alison Tyler

An S&M Love Story

    The men in the room are all bent into interesting positions. A big blond stands on his hands, balanced and unmoving. Another dangles from rings. A third is leaning over a polished leather horse. Hadley McCarthy watches the men as she moves past them—imagining that they have been put there for her pleasure, fantasizing that they will never move. Hold still. Stay that way.
    She hears the voice of the trainer, and her head turns quickly. Trainer. In another world, in her other world, the word means something else. There, he’d be Dom. Here, he is Coach.
    When she sees him, she feels for a moment as if she can’t breathe. He is older than she is by maybe fifteen years, and he’s tall: at least six foot three. She’s good at approximating—being a journalist has honed her observational skills. The trainer has a thick, solid chest, muscular arms. There’s a faded tattoo high up on his biceps. Old-fashioned, Sailor Jerry style. But his physique is not what stops her: it’s the power that emanates from him. She’s never been so struck by a stranger before. He has a presence that draws out her basest, most animalistic instincts. She wants to fuck him.
    He turns and looks her way, but he doesn’t seem to see her.
    The room is in motion, suddenly—or maybe it was always in motion and she had frozen the players in position with the power of her mind. The men are beautiful—young and lithe. Yet she doesn’t see them as points of interest. She sees only the trainer, the way he stands and observes, barks, manipulates. He’s the oldest thing in the room, and she only has eyes for him.
    Would he talk like that to her if she asked him?
    Would he bark commands? Push her around?
    Would he punish her?
    Hadley remains still for a moment and takes a breath. Then she heads to the front desk to find someone who can help her.
    * * *
    Guy watches through the windows in the office. He runs his hands through his thick dark hair, as he always does when he’s nervous. A quick gesture, as if to make sure every carefully mussed piece of hair is still artfully out of place. He touches the buttons on the front of his shirt as if they’re talismans, shoots the cuffs of his sleeves. Hadley doesn’t notice him, but he follows her intently. She is different from the rest of the girls moving through the gym in their colorful bits of glittery spandex. She’s older and poised. The gymnasts are poised, too, but in a different way. Positioned is a better term. Always on display.
    He walks down the corridor and moves quickly after the woman.
    * * *
    Reed Frost sits in the Parallel Bar—the gym’s ultra modern upstairs café—staring at this journalist. He sizes her up quickly, the way he sums up any new athlete walking into his gym: dark hair, deep brown eyes, high cheekbones. Delicate features you want to trace with the tip of your finger. V-neck sweater in charcoal and a matching pencil skirt. Lovely. He appraises her automatically, a mental exercise. As he would a new athlete, he puts her through an imaginary routine. She has balance; she’s graceful—he can tell that instantly. It’s a skill. He smiles to himself. She has absolutely zero interest in his services. This girl is here to do a piece for the local paper. She’s not here to ask about becoming a member. Besides, she’s two decades too old.
    “Why are you smiling?”
    Her voice surprises him. He stops smiling and looks at her, his blue eyes narrowing. His athletes don’t talk to him like that. But he reminds himself quickly that she’s not one of his athletes. “I’m not often the one being interviewed,” he says, voice even.
    “Meaning?” She holds her pen above her notebook. He likes that she isn’t using a laptop. He notices that her pen is sleek, silver and expensive-looking, and her notebook isn’t one of those fancy, useless ones from a craft store. She’s writing in a Moleskine. He uses the smaller version to keep his own notes.
    “For my