Rule 34 - Charles Stross [90]
There’s safety in numbers, up to a point. Liz has got your name on some kind of watch list, bless her, but that’s a fat lot of use if your mystery stalker decides to jump you in the bushes while you’re stranded between half-hour buses on a deserted industrial estate due to working late. Or if they decide to have a little tête-à-tête in your hotel room, just them and you and Mister Rubber Hose. But you’re damned if you’re going to turn up on her door-step, shivering and small. Liz is desperately, blatantly monogamous, and if she clocks that Julian isn’t your primary anymore . . . let’s just say you need a wife like a fish needs a bicycle.
Speaking of bicycles, since you and he decided to plough your different respective fields, you’ve not dated a man. Much less ridden one. It’s turning into a still, small irritant at the back of your head: Am I losing it? Turning into a hairy-legged man-hater . . . Well no: But there’s been a distinct shortage of cock-meat on the buffet lately, and it’s leaving you feeling a bit unbalanced. If nothing else, dinner with John should beat room service for amusement value. And if he’s thinking along the lines you think he’s thinking along, maybe he’s good for dessert, too. Subject to certain reservations—
“Hi.”
“Hi yourself. Can I buy you a drink?”
He offers you a chair.
“Sure. White wine spritzer. How about you?”
“I’ve already ordered. I wasn’t sure you were going to show,” he says disarmingly, tapping on the menu. “Agree on impulse, regret at leisure.”
“Oh really?” You raise an eyebrow. “You’re absolutely right: I nearly didn’t. On the other hand, mysterious strangers have a draw of their own. How does it work for you?”
He’s stealthed, and you’re letting him know you know. He doesn’t have a Facebook page. He’s not on LinkedIn, or Netwerked, or any of the others. The only match your agents could find was a local listing on DoggerBank, but it didn’t come with a headshot. On the other hand, he’s not in the public sex-offenders register either.
“Sometimes well, sometimes badly,” he admits. “I value my privacy, but sometimes it gets a bit lonely.” He looks at you, and you think, My, what big eyes you have, Mister Wolf.
“So tell me, Mr. Christie, where do I go to find out more about you?” you ask teasingly. “Besides the personals on DoggerBank? Wikipedia?”
He flushes slightly but doesn’t deny anything. “I got a lot of shit about my name in high school. When they found out about him.” He means the other John Christie, the one they hanged seventy years ago.
“No relative, I assume.”
“None whatsoever.” He waves a hand dismissively. One of the waiters is coming, starched apron and silver tray loaded with a tulipshaped glass and a whisky tumbler. You wait for them to depart.
You lick your lips from behind the cover of your glass. “So, do you post to DoggerBank often?”
“I wouldn’t know. Do you often read personals on DoggerBank?” He’s echoing your posture, you think. To test it you rub one finger on the side of your nose. Sure enough, five seconds later he raises a hand. “I might,” he says coyly. “If you want me to.”
Well, it wasn’t an off-puttingly bad ad. (SWM seeks SWF for edge-play, penetration-OK, RF, safeword-OK.) You sip your spritzer and breathe in, pushing your breasts up a little. “Do you want to fuck me, Mr. Christie?” His pupils dilate. Clearly, the answer is yes. But he’s well-trained enough to say nothing, waiting: like a wolf, intent but distant. You feel a wave of heat, nipples tightening. “The safeword is fish, Mr. Christie. Can you live with that?”
“Fish.” He nods. “Yeah.” His close-cropped scalp shines slightly under the overhead spotlights. There’s a moment of glassy-eyed focus, then he blinks, breaking the slightly creepy stare. “Sorry.” He smiles shyly, losing ten years of age, suddenly cute. “I wasn’t—I really was inviting you to dinner.