Behind the Green Curtain by Riley Lashea Page B

what
stopped her from masturbating in the bathroom stall, it was really more
logistics and the quarter-inch gap at one side of the old wooden stall door.
    Still, as she returned to the
lobby, Caton had nearly found her way back to the relative normalcy of being in
Amelia’s presence. Then, she spotted Amelia, standing like a beacon in the
center of the room, holding not only the entire group of potential investors
captivated, but a few passersby who had been drawn into her orbit as well.
    As she finished her story, the
group went up in raucous laughter, gaining Amelia even more attention from the
room’s patrons, and Amelia’s eyes rose to the crowd, scanning her admirers with
haste, stopping only when they got to Caton. She didn’t smile, but Amelia’s
gaze was oddly unguarded, burning with desire as blatant as Caton had ever seen
it. Desire for her, though, or for the power she held over her? Realizing the
two may be one and the same for Amelia, Caton turned from the temptation and
burrowed into the crowd, leaving Amelia to her flock.
    The clutch in her hand felt solid,
and it occurred to Caton she could escape. She wouldn’t want to risk the run-in
with Amelia to retrieve her cape from the box, so she would run cold if she
ran, but she would be liberated, free of Amelia’s strange power over her.
Unready to make that kind of commitment, apparently, Caton found herself back
in the loge, watching the crowd below, considering how she ended up in her
current position, knowing she had only herself to blame.
    As the lights blinked in warning,
Amelia returned with her arm in Mr. Argo’s. Watching the men strut back toward
their seats with expensive wine in cheap plastic stemware, Caton put on her
best fake smile for them. If this was what Amelia wanted from her,
reinforcement in her seduction of complete strangers for profit, then that’s
what Caton would give her. But it was all Caton would give her. Amelia had no
right to ask for more.
    Mr. Argo and his
slightly-inebriated friends settling back in, Caton glanced at Amelia, knowing
Amelia only responded to strength and facing her was the best way to regain
some element of control. Staring back with her usual indecipherable look, Amelia
held out a bottle of water, and Caton blinked at it, searching for the skull
and crossbones on the label.
    Thrown from her intended course,
she couldn’t remember what stand she was trying to make. “Thank you,” she said
on automatic, taking the water and discovering how thirsty she was when she
twisted the cap off and took a drink.
    The darkness sinking back over the
theater, civilized applause rising toward the rafters, Caton settled back into
her seat, capping the water and setting it on the floor beside her. Remnants of
Amelia’s touches still on her skin, she feared a reenactment, and longed for
it, two contradictory poles that always seemed to balance each other and exist
harmoniously when she was around Amelia.
    On stage, an aria swelled and,
beside her, Amelia nudged slightly closer, her hand breaching the slit in
Caton’s dress to settle above her knee. There was almost affection in it, and
Caton sighed, partly in irritation, partly in delight, and folded her hands
primly in her lap, as if feigning purity would make Amelia abstain.
    For a while, it seemed to work. The
hand just sat there, perfectly still, making an impression on Caton’s leg like
an iron held on the same sleeve for too long. Then, there was the slightest
movement of Amelia’s fingers, a barely-there brush easing over skin already
branded, turning into an explorative up-and-down slide along Caton’s thigh.
Easing inward, the touch traveled further with each pass, ceasing its
advancement only when it reached the point where Caton pressed her thighs
solidly together beneath the fabric of her dress.
    Swallowing at nothing, Caton
managed not to squirm in her seat. Weeks ago, it would have been impossible,
but, evidently, Amelia’s bouts of torture had been