Annabel Joseph - Firebird

Fit, petite. Red hair a plus.

Pleasure guaranteed.

She sighed and worried the dog-eared pages between her fingers. She should just go to bed. She had to get up in the morning for an interview at a nightclub down the street. Against her better judgment, she crept out to Glenna’s computer anyway and clicked it on. The sudden glare of the screen lit the dark apartment and made Prosper wince. Before she lost her nerve, she logged on to the magazine’s Web site and navigated to the personals. She set up an account, scolding herself the whole time for being an idiot. It was too risky. He could be a maniac.

Well, she wouldn’t tell him anything about her, not even her real name. Then if he turned out to be a disgusting, icky guy, she could just walk away. When she was logged on as Julie (M467), she searched until she found George’s ad, and clicked on it. She typed a short note to leave in his in-box.

George,

My name is Julie. Fit, red hair too.

I’ve never answered an ad before,

but your pitch sounds appealing.

She stopped writing, unwilling yet to tell any more about herself. She’d leave it open, just express a little interest. She hit Send and took a deep breath. She would see what he wrote back. If he even wrote back.

Jackson looked at the smiling woman sitting across from him as he signaled the waiter for the check. He hoped the parting wouldn’t be too awkward, although he didn’t really know a nonawkward way of telling someone you had no intention of seeing them again. The submissive he’d met through his personal ad had fudged a little on the “fit” descriptor. She’d fudged a little on the age too. She was in her midfifties, he guessed. She actually looked similar to some of his mom’s friends back home, except that his mom’s friends didn’t call him Master and outline all the ways they’d provide service to him.

He suppressed a shudder. He just wanted to get out of this situation with minimum damage to her psyche—and his. He waved off her offer to split the check and threw down some bills, anxious to leave the restaurant before she asked for his number, or worse, volunteered to come back to his place.

“Can I get you a cab?” he asked, trying to infuse his voice with an unmistakable, but gentle, finality.

“I drove.” Her gaze showed the humiliation she felt, even though her words were loud and cheerful. “It was certainly nice to chat with you.”

He tried to summon up a true smile. It was the least he could do for her in the face of his total rejection. “I hope you find what you’re looking for, Myra. I just think I’m not it.”

She nodded. “I suppose. I hope you find what you’re looking for too.”

His mind flew to Prosper, to movement and shyness and mystery. “I hope so too.” They shared a stiff hug. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

“No. I’d rather you didn’t. Good-bye, George.” She turned her back on him and walked away. After a moment he turned in the other direction toward his house, trying to shake off pangs of guilt. Why should he feel like the villain? She was the one who had answered his ad, purporting to be something she was not. She wasn’t fit; she wasn’t anywhere near the age range he’d specified. Her hair was salt-and-pepper, not red. She was too slavey, too spineless to interest him anyway. Too desperate.

But then he was desperate too. Why else would he even be trying this? Did he really expect to meet a decent woman this way? What kind of woman would look for a partner in the personal ads? Then again, he was looking for a partner in the personal ads, and he was basically normal. Mostly normal, apart from all the kink stuff he liked to do. But it wasn’t worth it, not if he was going to end up in situations like this, meeting with people who were completely wrong for him and then feeling guilty for blowing them off. He wasn’t even going to be in New York for very long. Better to just delete the ad and rely on porn for the few months he’d be here. Porn and fantasies of Prosper. No one else would live up to her anyway, so what was the point?

He bounded up the stoop and into his house, determined to delete his ad before he changed his mind. He logged on to the Web site and found another message in his box from someone named Julie. He moved the mouse, the pointer hovering over the Delete button, but then curiosity got the best of him, and he opened it.

George,

My name is Julie. Fit, red hair too.

I’ve never answered an ad before,

but your pitch sounds appealing.

He stared at the message. Short and abrupt, nothing like Myra’s meandering essay. He tapped his finger on the mouse, considering. Yesterday he would have been thrilled about the possibilities, but now he was skeptical. Was she worth the risk of another awkward meeting? But she met his criteria—or claimed to—and obviously wanted to know more. Fit, red hair too . He thought of Prosper, of all the things he dreamed of doing to her. If he could find someone like her, perhaps it would ease the ache just enough to make it bearable. His resolve began to ebb, and he clicked the Reply button. He’d write back and see where things went, but he wouldn’t harbor any false hopes this time.

Julie,

Thanks for your note. Glad I appealed to you.

My pitch is what it is, no games. I’m looking for fun and

enjoyment. Not to brag, but I’m told I know what I’m doing.

I’m new to the area, rather busy, and need

the occasional “unwind.” Want to meet? Talk?

He reread it. Light, nonthreatening. Some controlled boasting but not over the top. He pushed Send and dressed quickly. Time for rehearsal. He didn’t know if he’d be able face Prosper after actually spanking her ass— spanking her ass —yesterday. The look on her face when she’d spun on him. Priceless. Any hopes he’d harbored that she might secretly be into D/s disappeared at the outrage on her face. Not that he’d been testing her. It had just happened. He would have to be careful not to cross any more lines of propriety with her, regardless of the fantasies in his mind.

He walked down the street cursing his overactive imagination. Even the crisp late-autumn air couldn’t cool him off when he started thinking about her. Her, whoever her was. The serious, focused Prosper he worked with every day, or the more sensual Prosper who haunted his dreams every night. He’d lain in bed last night thinking about his favorite new scenario. Prosper, nude, in the rehearsal room. Him running her through steps and combinations with a riding crop dangling from his fingers. When she took a wrong step or turned the wrong way, which never happened in real life, he’d raise the crop and give her a sharp thwack on the underside of her ass. She would yelp and apologize. He would gesture for her to repeat it, unwavering.

Fuck . He rearranged his rising cock and walked faster. No, not a good dream for now, out on the street, a block away from the theater. He looked up and did a double take. There she was, coming in the other direction. He slowed his pace, trying to time it so they would arrive at the door at the same time. Near the door she noticed him, slowed, held back. Scared of another spanking?

“Hi, Prosper.”

“Hello.”

He opened the door for her. “You’re late.”

“I was getting breakfast at that coffee shop down the street. The waiter always talks my ear off.”

“What coffee shop? There’s one nearby?”

They both crossed the lobby to hang up their coats. A dozen other dancers milled around, but he only saw her.

“Yeah. It’s just called Coffee Place. Creative, huh?” She laughed.

He was spellbound. Like a true fetishist, he noticed everything about her—the novelty of her light laughter, the graceful way she stretched to hang her coat.