THE PANAMA CLUB: Pas de trois // Chapter 4

Where the heck is this story going, right? What do you think so far? 

I'm trying to explore more of the multiple partner psychology I find fascinating. How love can heal, how support and care can extend to and from more than one person in your life and what that might mean for each of the people involved in that kind of relationship.

I'm also interested in providing more story with the kink. More story and more romance. And in this case some BDSM as well. I want this story to be a good and engaging read on different levels and to have a beginning and middle and end. Not a series. A complete read.

Anyway, here is Chapter 4!

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Ballard guided her to stand, then steadied her. Her ass was on fire and her watery legs quivered. She swore Ballard knew she’d come from his spanking and her cheeks began to blaze as hot as her bottom.

“Sorry for what, Ms. Perry?”

She sniffled and wiped her wet eyes. “I’m sorry I was rude.”

“I accept your apology. And I’m sorry I had to punish you. . . . I’ve misplaced the flashlight but if you take my hand I can lead you out of here.”

She reached into the darkness, searching in circles for Ballard. His hand took hers gently and he helped her over the broken brick wall. Once in the open again the dim shapes of walls were clearer. She reclaimed her hand from his, tucked both her hands under her armpits and followed along behind Mr. Ballard as he led her out to where they’d first talked.

She could see Mr. Ballard better now in the light coming from the windows. Outside there were still people passing right to left on the narrow brick sidewalk. With their nearby company she didn’t feel so frightened. But the humiliation still stung.

Ballard’s hands were in his pockets again, quarter-facing the windows, the tinted sunlight painting him in warm muted color. His face was held in a stern scowl. Golden light touched the edge of his sharp jaw and the divot of his sunken cheek. There was arrogance in his face. And a masculine sort of dominance she’d never encountered before.

She regarded him with her chin down, looking up through her brows, seeing the golden hair on his powerful tanned forearms. He wore no watch, just some leather bracelets. She liked the way the hair was combed back from his face, liked the way it fell in waves behind his ears to touch the collar of his shirt. Despite the casual look of his clothing, he wore it with some measure of authority. What kind of diplomat could he be?

He turned then to regard her, those cold eyes staring into hers. He said, “There’s an ongoing investigation, Ms. Perry. Someone will come soon to examine the room.”

“Can you tell me what soon means?” Her voice was soft and quiet.

“No, I cannot. The Minister of Culture asks for your patience in the matter.”

“And there’s nothing I can do?”

“Be patient,” he said, now strolling toward her. She sidestepped to get a sawhorse between them.

“You took your punishment well,” he said in that low gravelly voice, brought a hand from his pocket, a large and masculine hand, and touched the edge of her jaw. She flinched and moved her head away. Ballard took her chin and made her look his way. “Don’t be ashamed of your orgasm.”

“Can you go, please?”

“My work here is done, Ms. Perry,” he said, and let go her face. Hands in his pockets again he turned to leave but changed his mind. He faced her and put a hand in the chest pocket of his shirt, brought out a stiff business card. “Do you have a pen?”

She sidestepped further, reached for her purse, rifled through it looking for a pen. Her legs shook still, her hands too. And she was wet. The heat of her orgasm still warmed her chest and cheeks.

She found a pen and passed it to Mr. Ballard. While he wrote on the back, bracing the card on the sawhorse, he said to her, “I’m writing down an address and a time. If you wish to discuss further some of the more interesting complications that arose from our meeting today, be at this location at this time.” He passed the card and pen.

“I’m married,” she said, chin still tucked down but showing him a fiercer stare.

“You’re not married, Ms. Perry. And I think you misunderstand. Mr. Ortega would be wise to attend with you.” He waited a beat, then added, “If he is a man who wishes to learn how to tame his tiger. . . . Good day, Ms. Perry.”

He nodded, face grim but smug, and casually strolled to her front door, opened it and walked out into the sun. He looked up and down the narrow street, brought sunglasses out of his pocket, put them on and headed south, blending in with the sidewalk traffic. London trotted around the sawhorse, raced to the door and locked it. With a hand cupped to shield the glare, she peered up the street to see if she could still spot Mr. Ballard. But he was gone.

Now she had the luxury of anger.

“What a fucking asshole,” she said under her breath.

She made her way to the sawhorse, kicked her loafers out so she could put her feet back in, still shaking her head and clucking her tongue at the way that man treated her. But she had been rude.

Heat still bloomed between her thighs, and without getting her loafers on she retreated back from the windows and further into the dim. Her hand slipped down the front of her leggings and eased between her thighs. She was sopping wet, and fully engorged. And so fucking horny right now. No one had ever treated her like that. No one would ever dare. She was London Perry. Protégé. Beautiful ballerina. Smart and successful.

Her fingers worked hard, two middle ones pressed together and rolling in circles, and finding her pleasure took only seconds. She wore no underwear. Ballard had spanked her. And while he’d spanked her, she knew she’d put her rump up higher for it. Wanted to feel the crashing of his palm against her soaking labia. And he had. She’d pushed her pussy up for Ballard to smack it. Just a thin sheet of fabric between his hand and her naked sex.

She burbled and gasped, bit down on her lips as she orgasmed a second time. It rolled and rolled through her, and she slumped to the floor, going to her knees and sitting on her heels, leaning forward with her hands in her pants like a teenager, folding until her forehead touched the dirty floor where there should be polished hardwood.

“What a fucking asshole,” she sighed again.

***

After the gym, Alvaro called his sister back and she invited him to lunch. He drove into Casco Viejo and joined Dominica at a table for four on the restaurant’s rooftop patio, under the shade of a white canvas umbrella. The rooftop was packed, the lunchtime crowd lively, and more than a few faces looked up from their tables recognizing the bad boy of baseball had arrived. He kissed Dominica’s cheek and sat across from her, scooting his chair out from the umbrella’s shade so he could get some sun on his face and arms.

He said, “You hear from London?”

“I talked to her this morning. She’s mad at me. She said I’m paying for lunch, so I invited you.”

“You think I’m going to pay for lunch?” He lifted the menu and scanned it. “Why’s she mad at you?”

Dominica sipped her cocktail, a lime daiquiri, then said, “The Faith Hearts fundraiser? I set up the seats so you and London would be with the Minister of Culture.”

He looked over the top of the menu. “We didn’t sit with the Minister of Culture.”

“Right. The Minister changed the seating.” His sister made a funny face, mouth twisting to one side, eyebrows rising high above her sunglasses.

Alvaro snorted. “She didn’t want to sit next to London? Probably knew she’d be in for a hassle.”

“I don’t know why she changed the seats. But London is mad at me for not telling her before the dinner.”

“What could you do about it?”

“Nothing. London’s not really mad. It’s the whole ballet school is starting to wear on her.”

“It’s wearing on me, too,” he said, finger running along the sandwich choices, narrowing down what he wanted to eat for lunch. “Eight million for that building. The rentals pay, but I only bought it for London. It’s a pain in the ass, and if she’s not getting what she wanted from it? . . . I’m on London’s side. The Minister’s office is making this harder than it has to be.”

“London says she thinks Aguilar has it in for you because you’re a hotshot ball player from America.”

“I know. London’s been testing the theory out on me.”

“There might be something to it.”

He smirked at his sister. “London hasn’t been the kindest person dealing with them.”

“I warned her. You can be as right and true as you want, but if you act righteous and indignant to the ones who wield power over you, they will make your life miserable.”

“I know I would,” he said as the waiter arrived. He ordered a Corona, told the waiter they had another person still coming, and ordered for London one of her favorites: a gin and tonic with aperol and orange juice. They’d order food once London arrived.

Dominica said, “And how about you? How are the boy gangs? We spent so long keeping you away from them and you run right back.”

He laughed. This off-season he’d volunteered his time here in Panama City to teach baseball to local kids, at-risk ones, through a youth mentoring program. A lot of the kids had been involved with street gangs. They held the baseball sessions in secret to keep the newspapers away, meeting in a rundown gymnasium where the photographers couldn’t get a picture of him. “They’re good kids. And some of them aren’t too bad ball players. I see potential.”

“Maybe one day you can be an agent.”

“You mean like get a real job?”

Dominica cackled, her head lolling back on the seat’s headrest. He loved to make his sister laugh.

Now she nodded her chin to the side saying, “Here’s your future wife coming.”

He glanced aside to see London mounting the top step and emerging in the sun on the rooftop patio. She was gorgeous. The wind tossed her hair, and she looked sleek and sexy all in black, with the shoulder showing, the black sunglasses, the haughty tilt to her head. Dominica waved a hand overhead and London headed toward them. She slowed her step a second, sunglass eyes moving his way, not expecting him here. A big wide smile under the sunglasses, and she came right to him. He rose, kissed her; her skin was hot, her kiss wet and eager. The perfume she wore was strong, like she’d misted before coming in to the restaurant.

London asked him, “What are you doing here?”

“Dominica said you were making her pay, so she invited my credit card.”

London laughed and took her seat as the waiter showed up with her cocktail and his Corona.

“Such amazing timing,” London said, plucking the orange slice from the glass’s edge and eating the flesh.

Dominica said to London, “What have you been doing this morning? You’re all flushed.”

London sat straighter, eyebrows bowing above her sunglasses. “I am?” She touched fingers to her cheeks.

“You look like you’re happy about something.”

“Mm,” she nodded, smiling. “I was dancing. In my empty dance studio. And then a man came by from the Minister of Culture’s office.”

Dominica raised an eyebrow. “Unexpected?”

“Walked right in. The man we saw Aguilar with at your fundraiser.”

“The tall guy?”

“That’s him.”

“What’s his name?”

“Mr. Ballard.”

“I don’t know who he is,” Dominica said, turning aside and contemplating who the guy could be.

Alvaro said, “So? Is he going to fix the problem?”

“I don’t think so. Not right away at least. He just let me know they’re working on it and he took a look at the room.”

“Did you tell him the historian we hired said it was an old fridge room?”

“Of course I did. He was unpersuaded.”

“They’re fucking with you,” Alvaro said.

“Maybe. At least someone came by.”

Alvaro said, “What do we do next?”

London stood and tilted the umbrella, using both hands to lever it lower and set it in place. She sat back down and removed her sunglasses. Her cheeks were rosy despite her tan, and without the sunglasses he could see her eyes had a shiny, glossy look. The look she would get after they’d fucked.

London shrugged that bare sexy shoulder. “Wait and see, I guess.”

When he’d kissed her as she arrived, London’s lips were full and swollen.

It made him consider this man who’d stopped by the building. The one from the fundraiser who’d attended with the Minister of Culture. The man was tall and good-looking, long blond hair and a physique that filled out his tuxedo. Had this Mr. Ballard been alone in the dark of the ballet studio with London, the two of them with a flashlight in that creepy brick room with the hooks in the walls?

Bad thoughts teased at him, but soon he was chuckling thinking of it. London had been dancing. And she thought there had been a development in her stalled renovation. He reached across and took her hand, weaving his fingers between hers.