Page 17 of The Associate
A list of pending requests populated the right side of the screen, each line neatly timestamped and coded.
Three experienced subs he’d personally trained in the past six months.
The married couple he occasionally supervised for advanced rope work.
One new, highly-vetted applicant recommended by a senior member of the club’s board.
All of them competent. All of them visibly eager in their profile notes. All waiting for a slot in his schedule.
He scrolled down the list slowly, his face expressionless. The names and details blurred past him, their carefully documented preferences and certifications suddenly irrelevant.
His cursor hovered over the reservation confirmation button.
Room 3, the one with the reinforced suspension points, was available.Room 1, the more intimate, soundproofed space, wasopen as well. Every conceivable option was laid out before him, ready for his selection.
He could book a scene right now, use it to recalibrate, to reset the rhythm of his week. He’d done it countless times before, when work demanded too much, when life outside the club's walls felt too chaotic.
But his hand, usually so decisive, didn't move.
Instead, he closed the browser tab with a single click, the list vanishing.
He leaned back in the chair, the leather creaking softly, his eyes fixed on a darkened corner as he let the heavy silence press in on him once more.
He wasn't in the mood for a performance. Not for the kind of trained, polished submission offered here. Not for the practiced theatrics or the rehearsed obedience. Not for anyone who trembled because they had been taught to.
He reached out and turned off the monitor.
The room fell into near-total darkness, illuminated only by the faint glow from the hallway. Gael pushed himself up and out of the chair and walked back through the apartment. His bare feet made no sound on the polished floorboards, the quiet stretching thin around him.
He moved toward the living room almost automatically, drawn by the view.
The city was visible from nearly every angle, but from this window, it felt closer. A vast sea of artificial lights pulsed below, headlights weaving bright trails, streetlamps casting sterile beams. The steady hum of ten-million lives thrummed faintly through the insulated glass.
Inside, the apartment remained motionless. A diorama of a life, not a life being lived.
Gael stood with his hands held loosely at his sides, his posture ramrod straight. His gaze traced the dark grid of the city below, but his mind drifted elsewhere.
Back to the office. To the dim, late-night lights of the sixteenth floor. To a boy with doe eyes.
Samuel’s breath, shallow and unsteady, rose again in Gael’s memory. The subtle quiver in his fingers. The frantic pulse at the base of his throat.
Gael exhaled once, a low stream of air, and reached for the heavy crystal decanter on the glass bar cart. The amber liquid inside caught the city lights as he poured a precise measure into a single, heavy glass. A familiar ritual meant to signal the end of the night, a clean shutdown.
He set the decanter back in its place. Lifted the glass. Looked at the liquid, swirling it once.
And didn’t drink.
He held it for a long moment, feeling the cold seep into his palm, before placing it down on the narrow, black marble ledge, leaving it untouched, the single ice cube already beginning to melt with small, quiet cracks.
The silence pressed in again, more insistent this time. But tonight, it didn't soothe. It grated.
Gael kept his eyes fixed on the cityscape but didn’t really see it. His thoughts were elsewhere; caught in a place he had no logical interest in and no desire to acknowledge.
∞∞∞
Samuel
Samuel pushed the door open with his shoulder, his hands too full of the day to bother with finesse. The lock clicked softly behind him, sealing the apartment in the same cool quiet it always held. He exhaled, long and thin, the kind of breath meant to steady but landing closer to resignation. His shoulders stayed tight.
