Overture (Ch 17)
Wherein our protagonists explore a dynamic that merges ritual with authenticity, in search of a deeper connection.
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The final scrape of Harold’s fork against the plate cut through the soft hush of the apartment.
“Thanks again for the takeout,” he said, leaning back with a contented sigh. “And for not minding the dinner cancellation. I didn’t expect the session to run so long.”
“Truly, no worries.” Eva waved a dismissive hand. “I haven’t had Indian in a while, and I’ve been craving lamb vindaloo for weeks.”
He groaned. “It was astonishing. Future date spot, maybe?”
She laughed. “Absolutely not. It’s a hole in the wall—that’s why the food’s good. The whole budget goes to ingredients, not ambience.”
Harold chuckled. “An admirable business model.”
She rose to gather their plates. “All done?”
“Very.” He swept the last naan crumbs into his hand and tossed them away, tidying with his usual deliberation.
Eva slotted the plates in the dishwasher. “I’m going to freshen up—brush my teeth, etcetera,” she called over her shoulder, already heading down the hallway.
“Ah,” Harold replied ruefully. “Unfortunately I don’t have that luxury.”
She paused mid-stride and turned. “Maybe it’s time to gift you a drawer.”
His smile bloomed, unguarded. “I’d be honored.”
“In the meantime—” She doubled back, snatched a tin from the counter, and tossed it to him.
He caught it. “What is this?”
“Breath mints. Pop a few.”
“How many?” he asked, opening the tin.
She leaned in, sniffed, and made a theatrical grimace. “At least a dozen.” She drifted back towards the bathroom without waiting for his reply.
Harold laughed. “I’ll devise a dosing regimen,” he called after her. “Staggered use, periodic evaluation.”
She waved a lazy hand in acknowledgment before disappearing behind the door.
Harold lingered on the place where she’d vanished. He thumbed open the tin and took two mints—then two more for good measure—and set it aside.
At the window, dusk was settling across the city, softening the edges of buildings, turning mirrors inside out. In the distance, apartment lights blinked on—private universes opening behind curtains.
Another skyline surfaced. Same hour, different life. A living room with high ceilings, expensive art, a window that had watched his marriage thin itself into polite silence.
The mediation session replayed in his head: a conference table, legal pads, careful voices dividing a life with clinical efficiency. He’d come prepared for the worst, but across the table there was no rage, no outburst—only the hollowness of something that should have hurt more.
The lack of feeling frightened him more than anger ever could.
A soft sound from behind broke his reverie. Eva had emerged from the bathroom wrapped in the turquoise robe he’d bought her on a whim last week. The color made her skin glow like burnished copper.
She took one look at him and slowed. “Where were you just now?”
Harold blinked out of the trance. “Nowhere good.”
Her expression softened, concern flickering beneath it. “Divorce thoughts?”
His shrug answered for him.
“Want to talk about it?”
“No,” he said gently. “Not now. Tonight should be about us—looking forward, not back.”
She crossed to him, thumb brushing his sleeve with a grounding motion. “That sounds lovely.” Something in her face—those steady eyes, that uncalculated kindness—slipped straight past his defenses, untying the knots mediation had left in him.
Before he could fully register the motion, he had gathered her into his arms. They kissed—soft at first, tentative, as if reacquainting themselves. Then Harold pressed in deeper, his need for meaning rising with sudden urgency. He broke away, breath catching, his gaze burning into hers.
“Are you ready?” he asked, a thread of excitement circling his tone.
Her breath matched his. “Yes, Sir.”
Hand in hand, they crossed the bedroom threshold, as if entering a ceremonial chamber.
Eva laid out the choices: stockings, garters, lingerie, dresses, heels. Harold took a seat across from her, eyes tracking every motion. She lifted each piece in turn, and he made his choices.
“The black garters with the thinner straps and the wide waistband,” he said calmly. “I appreciate the contrast.”
It wasn’t an explanation, just a statement of preference. She filed it away as she set them aside.
“The sheer stockings with the wider thigh bands.”
She gestured to the underwear and matching bras.
“Black lace—no, red. A hidden pop of color.”
She moved on to the dresses, each one a different shape of intention.
“Deep violet, with the asymmetric hemline. And those same black heels. The ones from our pas de trois.” Eva hid a smirk at his nickname for their dinner with Greg.
She arranged the chosen pieces across the duvet, then opened her bottom drawer. From it she retrieved a small matte-black box and handed it to him.
Harold accepted it without a word. He’d left it here last week, unopened by design. When he lifted the lid, stainless steel glinted—a bullet vibrator, a narrow plug, a miniature remote, a small tube of lubricant.
“Bend.”
Eva turned and folded forward, legs parted, hands around her ankles.
Harold pocketed the remote and cracked the seal on the lubricant. He warmed a dollop between his fingers, then reached for her with that familiar blend of precision and tenderness.
She exhaled haltingly as the plug slid into place—cold, then warm. He followed with the bullet, settling it exactly where he wanted. When he finished, he sat back, letting his gaze travel over her held posture.
After a moment, he placed his hands on her rear, squeezing the soft globes and watching his fingers carve furrows into her supple skin. The gesture was neither reward nor punishment—just pure, unabashed want.
“God, Eva…” the words escaped before he’d even registered them.
“Yes, Sir?” she replied, still bent beautifully in half.
“Nothing,” he said, too quickly. His inner monologue pounced. Dammit, man, pull yourself together.
He gave her a firm smack, trying to regain his composure. “You may dress,” he said, “but only the underclothes.”
“Yes, Sir.”
She rose and reached for the crimson panties. The lace caught lightly on her heel, an unexpected snag that sent a brief flare of nerves through her. Dressing for him felt more exposed than undressing ever had. But she recovered, drawing the fabric up her legs in a single smooth glide. His quiet inhale reached her, and a thrill followed it down her spine.
Next came the bra. She lifted the strapless structure with both hands, offering it to her body with a practiced motion. His gaze followed the soft ripple of muscle beneath her skin as she clasped it in back and then adjusted the fit. Eva noticed. She was surprised to find the sharpened hunger in his eyes anchored her more firmly in herself.
Then the garter belt, a wide black band she hooked around her waist with unhurried precision. She knew the sight of her concentration—the dip of her neck, the spill of her hair—made his breath catch. The knowledge warmed her, and her movements became more languid.
The stockings followed. At mid-thigh she paused, letting him see the tender give of skin against the band—an unguarded, mortal softness she knew he found devastating, even if she herself disliked the spill of flesh over the edge. She tugged it higher, clipping it into place with a small, decisive click. The second stocking followed, smoother now, her confidence blooming with every tug.
After both were secured, her feet found the heels he’d chosen. She walked to him with measured steps, hands clasped behind her back. She sensed tension coiling beneath his composure, the charged stillness of a man still learning how to master his own desire. And she allowed herself the smallest satisfaction: she had brought him to this edge, simply by obeying beautifully.
Harold let the silence draw out before he spoke.
“Tell me what you felt doing that.”
“I felt nervous. Which surprised me.” A brief, measured sigh escaped her. “I’ve taken off my clothes for you so many times…but putting them back on feels different.” Her eyes fluttered, almost shy. “It feels more intimate. More dangerous.”
She hesitated and looked at him. He looked back with eyes wider perhaps than he intended.
“Continue.”
“You saw things I don’t always want you to see,” she admitted. “Like the way my thighs bulge over the tops of the stockings as I pull them on. Or the way I have to lift and adjust my breasts before the cups settle right.” She swallowed lightly. “All the small, awkward transitions no one is meant to witness. Like a magician being forced to reveal her act.”
Harold gave space for her delicate confession. Then he leaned forward slightly in the chair, his gaze steady, unblinking.
“Eva,” he said softly, “you belong to me.”
The words settled between them like an undeniable fact. Yet the timbre of his voice was that of a caress, a hand at the base of her spine.
“That includes your secrets—the ones you show and the ones you hide.” He let his gaze trace over her body. “There is no part of you I will ever disavow. Every corner of you is already mine to protect, to honor, to hold.”
He looked up at her. “Do you understand?”
Eva felt her body lean into his meaning, almost against her will. She hated that her body always realized the truth before her mind allowed it. Part of her didn’t believe him; how could she, when his phrasing was so flawless it could have been recited from memory?
But with Harold, the words themselves carried weight, as though he were placing them one by one into her hands for safekeeping. The poetry of it slipped under her skepticism, a siren call directed at the part of her that lived for exquisitely wrought language—then deeper still, a mere breath away from the very marrow of her soul.
And the part of her trained to offer devotion—the part that bent, that yielded, that breathed only in the presence of structure—recognized the gesture instantly. Her edges rounded, even as a sliver of doubt stayed rooted, small but persistent.
“Yes, Sir.”
Harold’s smile deepened, warm and proprietary. He let his hand drift to the same tender place she had named—the shallow swell just above her stocking band. His fingertips pressed lightly, and he watched the effect ripple through her.
“For the record…” His tone dropped to a murmur. “I love the way your thigh rounds here. The way it yields beneath my hand. It’s one of the most honest places on your body.”
Eva smothered an exhale. Heat stirred in a long-dormant place, but something in her held fast, unwilling to let him glimpse the full effect.
Then, as though nothing had shifted, Harold asked, “Where’s your report?”
“On top of the bookcase over there.” She gestured helpfully.
He turned in his chair. The low bookcase sat flush against the wall behind him, and atop it lay a slim sheaf of pages—only three. He picked it up, flipped the first page with a glance, and said, without looking up, “You may finish dressing.”
Eva obeyed instantly, grateful for the distraction from the warmth still pooling inside her.
While Harold crossed one ankle over his opposite knee and began reading, she returned to the bed, donning a skin-tone slip that skimmed her body. It was the one item she’d asked him to let her choose herself. Next came the violet dress; she guided it over her hips, drawing up the zipper with practiced grace.
At the dresser mirror she pinned her hair up in a simple twist. Then she fastened her jewelry: slim gold earrings, a delicate bracelet, a single thin chain at her collarbone. Lastly, she touched up her complexion with a deft hand: a sweep of eyeliner, a daub of blush, and a bold red lip—his favorite shade on her.
When she turned back, Harold had already finished the report. He rested it on his lap and met her eyes.
“Not bad,” he said.
“Thank you, Sir.”
He gestured toward the bed. “Sit.”
Eva perched on the edge of the mattress, knees together, back straight. The very picture of a lady, though Harold knew she was much more. He reached into his pocket and drew out the small remote. A subtle flick of his thumb brought it to a low setting.
Her muscles clenched reflexively in anticipation—an instinctive brace. But the vibration that bloomed inside her came from an utterly different place. Her eyes widened and her spine lengthened involuntarily. A soft, startled sound escaped her throat.
Harold’s answering smile was pure delight and slightly smug, like a cat amusing itself with prey.
“Dual mode,” he said. “I can turn on one, or the other. Or both.”
He tapped the remote again. Eva sucked in an audible breath and squeezed her legs, putting both hands down on the bed to brace herself.
“But let’s start things off slowly,” he added, dialing the setting back down.
The intensity eased. She let out a shaky exhale and relaxed her shoulders, but kept her hands firmly planted on either side for leverage. Just in case.
Harold watched her for another heartbeat, appreciating the contrast between her elegance and the subtle tremors coursing through her.
Then, as though she was defending a thesis in a lecture hall rather than on the brink of desire, he said calmly, “Your take on Donna Anna’s Act I recitativo accompagnato is…bold.”
She blinked, trying to steady her breath as the plug continued its low, insistent hum inside her.
“Bold how?”
“Consensual non-consent, gone wrong?” His tone was academic, though his eyes were anything but. “She does say, quite plainly, that Don Giovanni attempted to ravish her.”
Eva gathered her thoughts through the haze of sensation.
“It’s in the score,” she said, fighting for evenness. “The harmonic undercurrent…regret and panic, but threaded with something warmer. When she sings torcermi e piegarmi—twisting, bending herself—the strings practically make love to those words.”
“Some might say that’s an awfully regressive take,” he murmured, letting the words linger like fingertips on her skin. “If her craving runs that deep, why confine it to the score? Why not confess it outright?”
“Look who she’s speaking to, Harold.” Her lashes fluttered, betraying the effort behind her composure. “Why would she admit anything other than attempted rape to her own fiancé?”
A tightening flickered across Harold’s face—dark, gone almost before it formed.
“People hide things from those closest to them,” he said, gone suddenly quiet. “Sometimes out of fear. Sometimes out of shame.”
Eva was too distracted to catch the shift in his demeanor. The next pulse dragged a breath from her throat.
“Da Ponte wasn’t careless—he knew exactly what he was doing.” She swallowed hard. “The best artists show…they don’t tell.”
His gaze dropped to her trembling thighs.
“Is that so?” he said. “Because right now your words are revealing far more than your body.” His eyes found hers. “Perhaps you should take your own advice.”
Eva’s answer trembled, but her smile didn’t.
“Then perhaps,” she whispered, “you should give my body reason to speak up.”
Harold narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps I will.” He turned the page with slow precision. “Now, on to Zerlina: you claim ‘Batti, batti’ is a power reversal. Explain.”
Eva blinked, trying to focus. She parted her lips to begin, scholar’s instinct rising even through the pleasurable haze. Right as she inhaled to speak, Harold’s thumb flicked the remote: the plug went silent, and the bullet roared to life.
The jolt was immediate.
Eva squeaked—a bright, startled sound she had never once made in his presence. Her knees flew apart, then slammed back together. She stared at him, scandalized. Harold stared back, wide-eyed.
Time froze. Then they both broke.
Laughter erupted—hers mortified, utterly undone; his low and delighted, the sound of a man savoring the precise instant he’d cracked her composure.
“You bastard,” Eva whispered, half-laughing, half-whimpering as she tried to force her legs to behave.
Harold raised his eyebrows in that infamous, wicked dance—an expression so perfectly timed, so silently boastful, that Eva nearly doubled over in giggles all over again. He granted temporary mercy as the bullet fell quiet with a soft click.
Eva sagged forward, shaking with the tail end of laughter, stray curls falling errantly around her face. She pressed a hand to her stomach, breathing hard. A full minute passed before she lifted her head again, cheeks ruddy, eyes shining.
“Okay,” she said, gathering herself, smoothing her dress as if she hadn’t just dissolved entirely. “Okay…I’m ready.”
Harold reactivated the vibrator, this time at a lower setting. Eva steadied her breath, then launched into her argument.
“Zerlina. She’s clearly a Domme, and Masetto is her devoted puppy. Then he gets jealous and tries to assert dominance, but Zerlina sees through this immediately. Instead of backing down, she calls his bluff, begging him to beat her, and she’ll even thank him for—”
He cut her off. “You’re just reciting the plot,” he said dryly. “That’s not what I asked for.” He kicked the bullet up a notch. “Get to the point.”
Eva’s hands curled tighter into the duvet. She tried to focus, but the theory in her head kept tangling with the pulse between her legs. “It’s about agency,” she said, finally. “Her seduction disguised as apology.”
“Better.” His gaze sharpened with approval. “And the resolution?” he pressed.
“Zerlina—” Her voice thinned, but held. “—she’s the one shaping the dynamic. By the end of the aria Masetto is back where he belongs—”
A sharp, involuntary gasp tore itself from her throat.
“—forgiven…adored…and thoroughly owned.”
Her hips were making small, desperate circles that made the dress rise subtly along her thighs. She was struggling, truly struggling, to stay coherent.
Harold flipped to the last page, observing her with clinical pleasure.
“Well done,” he murmured. “And don’t forget to ask permission to climax.”
Eva’s gasp this time bordered on a whimper. Her hips were rocking openly, need driving every motion despite her attempts at poise. Harold cleared his throat and prepared to read again when Eva interrupted.
“Sir—forgive me,” she blurted, “what time is it?”
He blinked, surprised by the question. He glanced at his tourbillon.
“Shit,” he muttered. “We need to leave now or we’ll be late.”
He looked at her, mildly cross: he knew exactly why she’d interrupted. Eva only offered a meek, apologetic look. Harold shook his head, admitting defeat.
“So be it. You win this round.”
The bullet cut off, and her relief shuddered out in one long exhale. He stood and offered his hand. She took it gratefully, rising on unsteady legs.
They moved into the hallway, gathering their things—her purse, his jacket. Harold pulled out his phone and summoned a car.
“Three minutes,” he said. “You got everything?”
Eva reached for an embroidered shawl. “Yes, I think so—”
“No.” His voice cut neatly across hers. “It ruins the silhouette. You can take my jacket if you get cold.”
Eva nodded, cheeks still flushed, and hung the shawl back up. His hand found the small of her back as he opened the door.
“Shall we?” he asked.
Eva smiled fondly. “We shall…Sir.”
The look they exchanged needed no translation.
Halfway down the hall, Eva found her legs. She smoothed her dress and glanced up at him. “You always test me when I’m being stimulated. Why is that?”
Harold shrugged. “Why do people go to the circus?”
They reached the elevator, and he pressed the call button.
Eva eyed him. “Do you think I’m a clown?”
Harold jolted. “What? No, of course not!”
“Plenty of people go to the circus to see clowns,” she said pointedly.
“And acrobats,” he sputtered, “aerialists, contortionists. Performers with remarkable, singular talents that have to be seen to be believed—that’s what I meant.”
Eva crossed her arms, amused. “Hmm. Sounds like backpedaling to me.”
He stared at her. “Does that sound remotely like something I would call you?”
“If I’d known you were into clowns,” she deadpanned, “I’d have done my makeup differently.”
The elevator chimed. Eva slipped inside with dainty steps and fluttered her lashes innocently. Harold glared as the doors began to close. At the last moment, he slid his hand between them and stepped in next to her.
“You,” he said, frowning at her, “are definitely a contortionist. The way you’re twisting my words into ridiculous inferences.”
She laughed, bright and melodious. “Maybe we should pick up a big red nose on the way to the theater.”
Harold arched a brow. “Yes, it would suit your inner brat. Though she’d probably manage to put it on upside-down.”
“Please,” she said. “My bratty clown could run your whole circus.”
He rolled his eyes. “Eva,” he sighed, “for God’s sake—no more clowns.”
She only laughed harder, utterly pleased with herself for extracting this moment of discomfort—payback for the squeak he’d wrung from her earlier.
His exasperation lingered as they descended toward the waiting evening. Ahead lay Lincoln Center, and the promise of Mozart and Da Ponte’s sublime take on the legendary Don Juan.
Excellent chapter! I’m catching up on my reading!
Another Saturday and I'm transported again by your words, racing through my mind.