Free Slow Seduction (Struck by Lightning) by Cecilia Tan Page A

lying there, half-asleep, when my phone chimed with a text.
    My heart jumped for a moment. I was still used to James being the only one with this number. I picked it up and looked at the message.
    It was from Damon George: I have booked us a hotel suite in London for the weekend. I will forward you the exact address. Plan to arrive Friday after dinner, 9pm, and not leave until Sunday at least noon, possibly late afternoon or evening if warranted. If you agree, text me back: Yes, Mr. George.
    I texted him back as he instructed, thinking that would be it for the night.
    But another message came a second later. And now text me a photo of your cunny.
    I knew what he meant, but my mind raced. I still had the dildo in, my pubic hair sopping wet. Everything was swollen. I sent: What?
    Ha-ha. Your private parts, my dear.
    I froze, a bunch of lies coming to the front of my mind. My camera doesn’t work. I’m in a public place and I can’t right now.
    No. We’re not doing that anymore. I realized I had a better thing to say. I don’t have to do what you say until I set foot in the door of your hotel suite. Isn’t that right?
    For long moments, nothing happened. Then another text. That is right. Merely testing you. Good to see you can maintain appropriate boundaries. Very important skill.
    I wasn’t sure if he was serious or if he was saying that to make it look good. Whatever. See you at 9pm , I sent, and he didn’t answer. Phew.
    I put the phone aside and slid the dildo free carefully. I was exhausted. And it was going to be a long week.
      
    I settled into something of a routine for the next few days. I’d spend the late morning answering questions from people at the exhibition, have lunch with Tristan, give the two-thirty group tour, and then after the museum closed, head back to the ArtiWorks to help Paul and Misha with the renovation work. There was a partition wall in back that had to come down. Misha handed me a heavy metal bar with a bend in one end and a hook on the other.
    “What’s this?” I asked.
    “It’s a wrecking bar,” he said.
    “What do I do with it?”
    “Wreck!” He pointed at the wall with a gleeful gleam in his eye.
    I hefted the bar in my hand before swinging it at the wall. The hooked end sank satisfyingly into the wall plaster. As I pulled it out, it ripped a hunk of the wall free.
    “You get the idea,” he said. “Have fun.”
    Swinging the wrecking bar turned out to be a lot of fun and must have been a good workout because my arm and shoulders were sore as hell the next day. I spent three days reducing that wall to rubble but I managed it. I wouldn’t have wanted to do that for a living, but it was very satisfying to see the pile at the end and the nice big room that was created when the wall was gone.
    I told them while we sat around one night in the wreckage, covered in plaster dust, eating Indian takeout (they called it “takeaway”), that I would be leaving for the weekend.
    “Oh, are you going to take that trip to York you wanted?” Paulina asked. I’d told her I wanted to see York but not why. Not yet, anyway.
    “No, that’ll be next week. This weekend, I’ve actually got sort of a date right here in London,” I said.
    Michel brightened up. He had started growing a beard, and with his apple cheeks it gave him something of the look of a beaver or woodchuck. “ Sort of date? That sounds more interesting than a regular date.”
    “Weekend-long date?” Paulina asked. “I take it you met someone.”
    You could say that. Even if I hadn’t been sworn to silence about the society itself, I wouldn’t have been prepared to tell them what was going on. “I gave a private tour of the exhibit to someone who took an interest in me.”
    “Hmm, but you don’t sound that interested in him.” She scooped curry from a container onto her plate. She had brought china plates with a painted pattern of bright blue and yellow flowers on their rims from upstairs for us to eat on. “Am